


Drive Us from Wave to Wave

by afrikate



Series: The Curse of Natalis [6]
Category: Alpha and Omega - Patricia Briggs, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, F/M, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:53:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: In 1943, during a firefight turned ugly in the North African desert, Bucky Barnes is bitten by a werewolf. After capturing Barnes, Dr. Arnim Zola becomes intrigued with the possibilities werewolves present to Hydra. Unfortunately, one member of Hydra fails to read the instruction manual.Bucky's trying to hold himself together and keep holding the line on Hydra, but all these complicatedfeelingsaren't helping. And working away in the background, something is coming for him.---------Set in the MCU and the Mercy Thompson novels by Patricia Briggs. Readers do not need to be familiar with the books in order to enjoy this story. ***This fic is caught up to the Briggs-verse up through "Frost Burned" and "Dead Heat," but developments from later books aren't included.***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, all the thanks go to my wonderful, amazing, fantastic beta k8/paintedmaypole. She pushed me to be a better writer, told me when I was overthinking things, and made me laugh really, really hard. Thanks so much, k8!
> 
> This is part 5 of 6. Guys, I'm so sorry, but part 5 turned out to be more than 60k, so I broke it into two pieces. Again. *facepalm* I know. 
> 
> Part 5 is completely written and I'll be uploading over the next two weeks. (Part 6 is in beta and since it has lots of feelings, it might be a while until it's finished.)

Undisclosed location, November 2013

“More data.”

The tech appears to be frozen and Zola devotes a fraction of his processing power to reviewing common medical problems that could lead to this response. He is able to dismiss 98.436% of them. Most likely, the tech is simply slow to provide the requested data points and experiencing fear of a poor performance review. He is correct to be afraid.

The next time Pierce deigns to visit, Zola complains, “I need more data, Alexander. For this algorithm to work, I must have as many data points as possible from a wide variety of sources. Your personnel are failing. Without additional data points, Hydra will be unable to take advantage of my work.”

Pierce makes an expression. Despite a state-of-the-art graphics card and some of the most powerful data processors available, he cannot quite say what that expression means. Leaving behind the body for the digital sphere has been a fascinating and rewarding experience, but without neurochemicals, sometimes this interface fails to fully process the complex breadth of human emotion. He is working on improving this-- a side project.

“Yes, Doctor.” Pierce’s voice is pitched to-- soothe. Yes, soothe. He is not soothed. “I have directed the techs to provide you with everything you’ve requested. And I understand that you have identified another list of targets.”

There is no way that as a digital projection he should want to grind his teeth. However. “They have failed to provide all the information I require. If we are truly to identify threats to order, then we must go beyond the ordinary, the expected.”

“Of course, of course.” Pierce waves his hand and another tech approaches at a rapid pace. “Jellick. Provide the doctor with whatever he needs.”

Jellick makes noises that he will do so, but Zola is well aware that the man has stymied efforts thus far, whether from incompetence or sabotage. Amid his processors, he adds another name to the list: Hugh Jellick slides neatly between Alice Hoagworth and Gift Babati.

Pierce leans toward his primary interface. “Now, Doctor. I understand you have come closer to locating our missing asset.”

Within the machine, Zola does not experience emotions as he did while he wore a mantle of flesh and blood, but in this case. Well, there is satisfaction in finding Hydra’s lost lamb.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces and the players start coming together.

Boston, MA, April 13, 2013 

“James.”

“Charles.”

Bucky sits at his desk, posture ramrod straight rather than his habitual relaxed slouch. He doesn’t want to be having this call, just like he didn’t want to have every single call Charles has forced on him since he returned to Boston. He doesn’t want to think about the results of the DNA test Samuel did, the one he asked for, hoping against hope he was wrong and those kids were just the most successful of Hydra’s attempts to play God to date. 

He hadn’t been wrong, though. Hadn’t imagined their similarity to his sisters, hadn’t imagined that their blue eyes were the same color as his own. He’d vomited for hours after the confirmation, until he’d ended shivering on the floor of Charles and Anna’s bathroom, shaking as he tried to pinpoint exactly when Hydra would have milked him like a God-damned cow (any time, it could have been _ any God-damn time _they had him) and wondered how many others--

Bucky forces himself to cut off that line of thought as he and Charles watch one another in silence. Bucky listens to a car, then a motorcycle turn onto his street, can hear a clock ticking somewhere in Charles’ house. Charles’ gaze is steady, and Bucky forces himself to meet it, forces himself not to fidget, though he clenches his hand into a fist, hidden below the desk, his nails digging into his palm. He works to project calm, while Charles continues to watch him, face blank.

Eventually, when it’s clear that this stalemate could go on all day, Bucky huffs out a sigh. He shifts, rolling his shoulders, then squares them up again and bites out, “How are the kids doing?”

Charles leans forward in his chair, places his hands on his desk. “They’re adjusting.”

Bucky waits. 

“They’re staying with Asil for the moment.” Charles smiles. “He’s letting them choose their own names. The little blonde one has settled on Teresa, but the other two have been changing names every couple of days.”

Bucky mirrors Charles, leaning forward, though he’s pretty sure he just looks confused. “You let them stay with _ Asil ?” _

“For now.” Charles smile gets wider. “We tried separating them and it didn’t go well.”

“Understatement!” Anna shouts from another room. _ “Serious understatement!” _

Bucky opens his mouth to ask, then shuts it again. Tells himself he doesn’t want to know. He forces himself to keep his gaze steady when he asks, “Do you know more about when they became werewolves? Do they remember being Changed?”

“They can’t remember not being able to shift. It’s--” Charles sighs. “Obviously, their memories would start around the age of two or three, so we can’t be sure, but it’s likely they could shift from birth.”

Bucky taps his fingers on his thigh. “Like you.” Charles was the only werewolf known to have been born, not Changed, and Bucky’s heard that was due to his mother’s magic. Which adds an interesting and potentially terrifying additional dimension to this clusterfuck. “What does that mean, do you think?”

Charles shrugs. “We’re not sure. Samuel is studying the other components of their DNA-- they all have different mixes, from what we can tell. I know Samuel’s wife agrees that some of their ancestry is Fae, though she hasn’t given us much more than we could tell from their scent. But all the records I’ve found are so deeply encrypted I haven’t been able to break into them yet.”

Bucky stands abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the floor. He starts pacing. “So, we have no idea what Hydra mixed up with my DNA to create those three kids.” He throws up his hands. “And we have no fucking clue what other monsters they’ve cooked up from my genetic material over the last forty years.”

“Or, if they were successful in creating anyone else, where those creatures are now, what they’re doing.” Charles’ voice is so calm it makes him want to scream. “We can only speculate that if there were other-- creations-- they were raised the way these children were.”

“Damn it!!” Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair, tugging at it. It’s too long-- lately, the idea of going to a barber is more than he can stand. “Jesus f--” He bites back the curse, suddenly remembering-- “Steve asked about the STRIKE team.”

Charles cocks his head. “What?

“A while back, in the fall. Steve was asking--” He’s such an idiot.

“What was he asking?” Charles’ voice is patient.

Bucky looks down, his hand is shaking, too much adrenaline racing through his system and he bets his eyes have gone gold. The wolf is growling in the back of his mind. “The teams he works with, trains with-- they’re elite, like special forces. He said they were stronger than he expected, wanted to know if there were any werewolves in SHIELD.”

“I remember. There aren’t.” Charles is watching him carefully, 

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I let him know. I told him they were probably just on steroids.” He slaps his desk. “Damn it!”

“James.” Charles voice is deep, commanding, and it makes Bucky look up. “We can’t assume this is connected to the children”

“But it probably is.” Bucky swallows hard. “I should have figured they’d do something like this. They sure as hell had me long enough to take anything they damn well pleased.” He feels sick, stomach churning. Wraps his hand around his belly, resting his left arm on the back of his desk chair and leaning down to take deep breaths.

“James.” When he looks up, Charles is watching him carefully. “This isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what they would do. Breathe.”

He takes a breath, forces himself to exhale slowly, repeats it one, two, three, times. He hears Ayumi’s voice in his head, and he breathes in time with her words. Charles is watching, he knows, and it makes him flush, makes the wolf curl protectively around in the back of his head, but after a couple of minutes, he feels calmer. 

When he’s finally able to look up again, Charles’ face is worried. “Your friend still has a backdoor into SHIELD’s systems, right?”

Bucky nods. “I can ask him to take a look at the personnel records. Priority is the STRIKE teams, obviously, but he can probably go deeper.”

“All right, I’ll keep working on this encryption--”

“You,” Anna’s face suddenly appears on the screen as she wraps her arms around Charles from behind, “will _ rest. _ You need to sleep sometime, contrary to popular belief.”

She peers out at Bucky, her long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail and her eyes worried. “Have you been sleeping, James?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “I can call Isaac and talk to him.”

Bucky stares at her, betrayed, then turns to Charles, who’s laughing silently. “Are you kidding me?”

“My mate doesn’t joke around about the health of her wolves,” Charles says wryly, still smiling. “I think my father would add, ‘eat something.’”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m _ fine, _ Anna.”

She snorts. “That’s a lie and I’m not even in the room to smell it. You need to rest and to eat.” She leans closer, smirking. “Also, shave. And a haircut wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he announces, shaking his head. His hair falls into his eyes and he refuses to push it back and make Anna’s point. “I’ll get in touch with Tony. He might have some ideas about the encryption, too.”

“It couldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes on this.” Bucky cocks his head, surprised. Charles just shrugs. “Your friend has proved himself trustworthy over the years, James. I’m willing to seek his help, if that’s what you think is best.”

Bucky stares for a moment, then remembers to close his mouth. He takes a breath. “Okay, yeah. I’ll talk to him.”

* * *

Boston, April 23, 2013 

“Hey, old man!” It’s a Tuesday afternoon when Tony finally calls him back, sounding far too exuberant for noon on a weekday.

“Where the hell have you been, Tony?” Bucky’s left messages for over a week now. In the meantime, Jarvis has been no help and Pepper just stopped answering her phone. 

There’s a pause like Tony wasn’t expecting that level of vehemence and then he answers, a little defensively, “I was on vacation?”

Bucky stares down at his phone, sitting on the desk in front of him. “What?”

“I took a vacation. People do that, you know.” There’s a snap in Tony’s voice that makes Bucky think he’s gotten a lot of shit from people in the past few days. “Were you _ worried, _ old man?”

“The last time you were out of touch like this, a group of assholes kidnapped you, kid.” Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I was worried.”

And then, miracle of miracles, Tony’s actually _ sheepish. _ “Uh, I’m. I’m sorry.”

Bucky grabs up his phone, shaking his head and pacing up and down in his office. When he looks out the windows, the lunch rush is in full swing. “It’s fine. But really? You? A vacation?”

“Pepper insisted.” There’s a sound of rolling wheels, metal hitting concrete. “We went to the Canadian Rockies.”

“Huh.” Bucky watches Annabeth load too much weight on the machine and taps the window until Gustavo looks up. He points, and Gustavo makes an exaggerated eye-rolling gesture before going to talk to her.

“It was--” sound of metal hitting metal, like something’s been thrown into something else. “Oh, God, old man. It was so boring. I tried to retask a satellite using Pepper’s Kindle on day three.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “It took you that long?”

“And then she yelled, and then she _ cried, _ and then I had to stop and we did _ couples’ yoga.” _ Bucky grins. “I had to hold her on my feet and she was balancing, but then, uh--”

The mental image of sleek, composed Pepper trying to balance on Tony’s twitching feet comes to mind and Bucky snorts. “Did you drop her?” he asks, laughing. “Did you drop the love of your life while forced to do couples’ yoga?”

“I did,” Tony says mournfully. “I really did.”

Bucky can’t help it. He lets out a bark of laughter and nearly drops the phone. Tony just mutters back at him about how she should’ve just let him retask the satellite, he would have paid the fines, and they wouldn’t have been a lot anyway because the Chinese just would have wanted some lessons. Bucky ends up dropping the phone after all. 

He’s still chuckling when he picks it up again. “She get hurt?”

“Nah,” Tony sighs. “She’s even admitted the whole yoga idea was balls.”

“Marry her,” Bucky advises, still smiling.

“If I can get her to say yes, I’ll make sure you’re a witness.” They’re both quiet for a minute, before Tony says, “This isn’t why you called, is it?”

“No.” Bucky grimaces, remembering why he called. Sighs. “You still have that back door into SHIELD?”

“Yeah.” There’s a sound of flesh hitting metal, then cursing. “What do you need?”

Bucky wanders back over to the window, watches Gustavo leave Annabeth and head over to Christa. “I need personnel files for everyone on the STRIKE teams, to start with. DNA and fingerprint information in particular.”

“To start with.” Tony’s voice is thoughtful. “And to end with?”

“Everyone at SHIELD.”

It’s quiet for a moment, until Tony says slowly, “The records should be fairly easy, I’m pretty sure SHIELD gets your DNA and your firstborn when you sign a contract with them.” He pauses, and there’s a sound like he’s rubbing a hand over his goatee. “I’m more concerned about getting that much data without getting made.” He hums, sounds like he’s drumming his fingers on a table. “You worried about our mutual friend? He making other friends?”

“He’s raised some concerns.” Bucky curses himself for an idiot _ again _ for blowing off Steve in the fall. “It, uh. It’s gotten more urgent. I have--” He stops, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly while staring at where the wall meets the ceiling. “Another friend and I have new intel.”

“Another friend?” Tony’s voice goes up in surprise. “You stepping out on me, old man? Got your own Deep Throat?”

“Deep--” Bucky snorts another laugh, too surprised to hold back. It goes on longer than he means it to, but the idea of Charles-- 

Tony cuts in eventually. “Do I even want to know?” 

“Uh, no.” Bucky manages to get control of himself. “No. Just-- Look, what we found is encrypted to hell and beyond and it’s suddenly imperative that we break through. And you and Jarvis could help, I think.”

“Mm hmm.” There’s a clang, metal on metal. “Don’t take this the wrong way, old man, but you don’t usually like to share.”

Bucky nods. “I’m trying something new.” 

“Huh.”

Bucky forces himself not to squeeze the phone too tightly and break it. “Yeah.”

Tony’s voice sounds quietly pleased, which is annoying. “Well, all right, old man. Can you come to the Tower this weekend?”

“Sure.” 

“Is Spangles coming too? Should I roll out the red, white, and blue welcome mat?” Now Tony sounds gleeful.

Bucky makes sure his voice is absolutely neutral. “No, not this weekend.”

“All right,” there’s a pause. “You two cool right now?”

“Yes.” 

Tony hums into the phone. “Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Have some fun in the big city. Hit the clubs. When was the last time you got laid, old man?” Metal hits metal again.

Bucky smirks, remembering his partner from last night, the way she’d scratched his back until she’d drawn blood. “None of your business, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you soon, old man.”

* * *

New York City, April 27, 2013 

Bucky pulls into the underground lot at the Tower and parks, turning off his truck. He takes a minute to drop his head to the steering wheel and just breathe. It’s only been two days since the full moon and Manhattan traffic taxes his patience at the best of times. His hair falls into his eyes as he sits up, and he pushes it back, annoyed. He’s waaay past due for a haircut.

“Sergeant, welcome to the Tower.”

He bites back an instinctive growl. “Hi, Jarvis, nice to hear you again.”

“It is nice to see you as well, Sergeant. Sir is on the 72nd floor, in his workshop.”

“Thanks, Jarvis.” Bucky heads for the elevator.

***

Tony’s workshop is a mess, even by his standards. Usually, Bucky knows, everything is in a rough order, and if he looks long enough, it makes some kind of sense. Right now, though, there are pieces of metal and computer parts strewn everywhere, along with the remains of at least three different meals and empty glasses stained with some kind of green goop. Over the scents of motor oil and solder he can smell the rank odor of foods starting to rot and unwashed human.

“Jarvis,” he says quietly, “how long has it been since Tony slept? Is Pepper here?”

“Ah.” Jarvis sounds faintly unhappy. “Sir has been awake and working since he returned from the SHIELD offices in Washington, DC on Thursday. Miss Potts is at the Stark Industries UK offices in London and it has been at least 39 hours since Sir has slept.”

“SHIELD?” Bucky looks up to the corner where two walls and the ceiling meet, where there’s a nearly invisible camera. “Do you know why he was there?”

“Director Fury requested that he consult on a project to improve the helicarriers, Sergeant.”

Bucky considers this, eyes sweeping the room again. He crouches down to touch some of the larger pieces of metal which look twisted, ragged, before standing again.

He can’t see Tony, but he can hear swearing coming from behind one of the counters and heads towards it. He finds Tony lying on his back on the floor, head pillowed on what looks like a lump of blankets. Tony’s hands are moving over a wireless keyboard propped against his bent knees and he’s watching a holographic screen projected above him. The blue light is eerie, casting weird shadows on his face. His goatee needs a trim and his eyes are red. He doesn’t even look up at Bucky, just says, “With you in a minute, old man,” and keeps doing whatever he’s doing.

Bucky watches him for a moment, then shakes his head and walks away. “Jarvis, where’s the trash can in this place?”

***

He’s had enough time to dump all the food in the trash, run some water over the glasses and stack them in the sink in the corner, and ask Jarvis to place an order with that Thai place he likes, when Tony throws his fist in the air and shouts, “Yes! All your base are belong to us!”

Bucky blinks. Even he knows that one. “You okay, kid?”

Tony grunts and sits up. “Is there food? Jarvis, make there be food.”

“Food is coming, sir.”

“Good. I,” he turns to face Bucky, “am not just _ okay, _ old man. I am brilliant, I am _ the best. _ I am--”

“You are a grandstanding asshole in need of a shower.” Bucky crosses his right arm over his chest, gripping his stump. “You look like you’re going to collapse.”

“That hurts.” Tony points at him. “That is hurtful, old man, I don’t smell that bad, and you need a haircut.” He squints up at Bucky. “Like, you really need a haircut, you look like you’re trying to audition for a ‘90s boyband. Huh.” He blinks hard a couple of times. “What was I saying?”

Shaking his head, Bucky smirks at him. “You quoted some meme even I know, kid. What did you do now?”

Tony puts the keyboard on the ground next to himself, then pushes himself up to stand. He sways a bit when he gets to his feet, grabbing the counter in front of him, and Bucky tenses to catch him if he drops. “I got the personnel files you wanted. And, even better--”

“That’s great, kid.”

_ “ Even better, _ I got through that fucking firewall, the one that makes hacking Jarvis look like a walk in the park, I’m pretty sure I can use that to--”

“Focus, Tony.”

Tony looks up at him. “I got through the firewall that’s been a giant pain in the ass for _ years, _ literal _ years, _ and grabbed everything I could find.” He shrugs. “It’s a lot. It’s going to take a while to go through it. Now where’s the food.”

***

“So this is your guy? Your Deep Throat guy?”

From the life-size monitor mounted on the wall of Tony’s fancy office, Charles stares at Tony for a minute before he cocks his head at Bucky. “Deep Throat?” he asks drily.

Bucky buries his face in his palm.  
  
“What?” Tony’s perched on the giant desk that looks like someone sacrificed half a forest to build. “It’s as good a nickname as anything else. Time-honored. Like, a part of history!”

Bucky finally drops his hand and looks over at Charles from where he’s standing in front of the desk. “I can’t even give you an excuse. He’s always like this.”

Charles is doing his not-smiling thing. “I see why you waited to introduce us.”

Bucky sighs, then finally turns to his right and waves his hand at Tony. “Charles, this is Tony Stark, who’s been helping with the data acquisition side of things.”

“Data acquisition?” Tony sounds like he’s going to choke on his laughter.

Bucky keeps looking at Charles and rolls his eyes. He finally turns to Tony and completes the introduction. “Tony, this is Charles Smith, he’s one of the data analysis people.”

Tony stares at him for a minute. When he speaks, his voice drips with disbelief. “Do you really want to sound like this is a boardroom meeting? Because you aren’t doing a good job of it and I kind of feel like I need to bring in a PA or something.”

Charles cuts in then, thankfully, because while Bucky won’t actually shake Tony until his teeth fall out, he’s ready to start threatening, and threats never actually help with Tony. “I understand that you can help with data processing power. James and I… acquired rather more data than we anticipated and breaking through the encryption is proving challenging.”

“You _ and _ Bucky? _ ‘Acquired.’” _ Tony actually uses air quotes as he shoots Bucky an irritated look. “You _ are _ stepping out on me, old man.” Then he turns back to Charles and starts asking rapid-fire questions about decryption technologies that Charles has tried. He looks surprised and, eventually, unwillingly impressed at the answers. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. You need more processing power. How big are the files? You know what, let me set something up so you can transfer them here so I can work on them.”

Charles nods. “All right, set something up and I’ll upload them.” He glances at Bucky, then asks, “Have you gotten into SHIELD’s servers?”

Tony grins smugly, leaning back on the desk. “Of course.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again, makes sure he sounds disapproving when he says, “You worked for nearly two days straight and then basically collapsed afterward.”

“Thank you, Tony.” Charles sounds grateful. “Will you share the personnel files when we transfer the others? James and I need to go through them.”

“Yeah, of course.” Tony frowns over at Bucky. “You gonna tell me _ why _ you need to look at SHIELD employee DNA scans?”

Bucky and Charles have a silent conversation of looks back and forth, until Bucky drags his fingers through his over-long hair. “Hydra’s got an interest in genetic engineering.”

Tony narrows his eyes, swinging his legs. “Well, they would. Holdover Nazis-- it’s not like we could trust them _ not _ to go for eugenics. I take it that it’s not just theoretical manipulation of genes?”

“No.”

Bucky knows he answers too quickly, voice too harsh. Knows that’s like a red flag to a bull with Tony, but he can’t help it. But Tony must see something in his face, because instead of pursuing it, he looks over at Charles, then back. “All right, I’ll send the files to you both. Old man, I’ll give you the encryption key before you leave.”

Charles ends the call with them quickly after that, and Bucky’s left alone with Tony. He’s shocked when Tony doesn’t push, just closes down the equipment. As he watches, Tony fiddles with the remote, before he finally places it on the desk and then looks up. “You want to go a couple of rounds, old man?” He holds up his hands, curled into fists. “It’s been a while since you tried to kick my ass.”

Bucky watches Tony smirk and waggle his eyebrows like the ridiculous kid he is, can’t help but laugh. “Sure, kid. Let’s go down to the gym.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings? What feelings? There's no feelings here, officer.

Boston, May 3, 2013

Bucky’s leaning over the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention, when someone presses right up against him. He goes tense at the feeling of another body blanketing him when he didn’t expect it, and relaxation only follows when he recognizes the voice in his ear. “You wanna tell me why you’re sucking off every twink in this place?”

Then he parses the words. When he turns to face Vince, he’s got a smirk very firmly fixed on his face-- their break-up had not exactly been… amicable. “Why, babycakes, you want a go?” He purposefully licks his lips, leans back a little to display himself. 

Vince rolls his eyes. “As if. Just wondering what’s making you slut it up-- you don’t have to fuck every marginally attractive kid in this place.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “What, you jealous?”

Vince sighs. “You’re a fucken idiot.” He raises a hand and holds up two fingers-- he must catch the bartender’s eye immediately, because it’s not two minutes before the bottles are plunked down on the bar. Vince brushes against him as he grabs the bottles, then tilts his head toward the tables in the corner. “C’mon, dickhead. Your sob story better be entertaining or you’re buying the next round.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “What makes you think I’ve got a sob story.”

_ “Everyone _ has a sob story, baby.” Vince turns, clearly expecting Bucky to follow. Bucky watches a minute, taking in Vince’s mesh t-shirt and his sculpted back, his ass swaying in worn blue jeans that look painted on. He shrugs and follows, catching Vince’s next words, “No one starts sucking cock like twinks are going out of style without  _ something _ going on.”

He smiles, dragging a chair out from the table Vince grabs. “You gonna listen to my tale of woe?” He laughs a little at the bored look Vince shoots him. “It has a blond in it-- you love blonds.”

***

Back at Vince’s place, Bucky murmurs between kisses, “Never told you my sob story, baby.”

“Whatever.” Vince kisses like he’s drowning, deep and wet. “It was probably boring anyway.” He pauses, looking up at Bucky through lowered lashes. “Unless you want to tell me about that blond now?” His voice is breathy as he shimmies on Bucky’s lap.

“Less talking, more fucking,” Bucky growls, hand squeezing Vince’s ass, pulling him closer. “No blonds here.”

Vince laughs and leans in for another kiss.

***

In the morning, remembering Vince’s screaming fit the one time he snuck out, Bucky shakes him awake. “Gotta go to work. You gonna make me coffee, baby?”

Bleary-eyed, Vince blinks up at him, then groans. “There’s a Dunkin around the corner, asshole.”

Bucky laughs, shaking his head. “The perfect host.” He slaps Vince’s ass through the covers. “See you later.”

Vince rolls over to look at him as Bucky heads for the door. He looks more awake, more serious than Bucky expects for 5 AM. “Be careful, James.” He leans up on his elbow. “Whatever’s going on, it’s not worth being stupid.”

It’s unexpected, and reminds Bucky why he actually dated Vince for six months. Instead of tossing out the flippant answer on the tip of his tongue, he stops and turns back. He holds Vince’s gaze for a moment. “I’ll be careful.”

Vince nods. “See that you are.” Then he flops down and drags the blankets over his head. “Now go away. I don’t need to be up until 10.”

* * *

Boston, May 26, 2013

By eight the party’s broken up, most of the pack already headed out and the remaining folks are helping clean up, stacking folding chairs in the garage and collecting trash. Alison’s holding a pile of dirty paper plates in her hands when she hip checks him, then tosses them in the bag he’s holding. “You mind if I stay tonight?”

Bucky looks at her, frowning. He glances over to where Lisette is helping Molly pull down one of the card tables, then back at Ali. “You two have a fight?”

Alison shakes her head and leans into him. “No, just missing my best friend. And we haven’t had movie night in a while.”

“Oh, okay.” Bucky smiles down at her. “That’d be nice.”

She heads back over to collect more paper plates and Bucky watches her grin and give Lisette a kiss as she walks by. Bill, heading inside with a miraculously uneaten plate of burgers, pauses and murmurs, “Boy, I have no idea how you manage that.”

Bucky’s wolf bristles at being called a boy and Bucky stifles a growl at the idea of managing anything. Instead, he lets his smile slide into a smirk. “We’re all adults, Bill. We communicate.” He drags the word out until Bill shakes his head and walks into the house.

It’s not long before his yard looks good as new and nearly everyone’s gone. Bucky’s standing on his front porch watching Alison give Lisette a kiss goodbye at their car when Isaac stops in front of him. “You have a minute, James?”

Bucky nods. “Of course. What’s up?”

Isaac crosses his arms and gives Bucky a onceover. “You barely ate anything at the cookout and you look like shit. Do I need to have a talk with Bran?”

“Uh.” Bucky can’t hide his surprise. “That’s your call, boss.”

The slam of the car door makes them both turn to watch Alison coming up the walk. Isaac looks between the two of them, then turns back to Bucky and rolls his eyes. “Really, you two?”

Alison moves a little faster, clearly annoyed. Bucky watches her glare at Isaac. “Says the guy who dated the Wicked Witch of Boston.”

There’s a moment of tension, then Isaac shrugs, breaking it. “Okay, you got me there.”

Alison leaps up the steps to the porch and growls, “Polyamory, asshole. Look. It. Up.” Then she turns to Bucky. “I’m gonna make popcorn. Do we need fast cars and explosions or adorable weapons of mass destruction tonight?”

Bucky can’t hide his wince. “Definitely fast cars and explosions.”

She nods, then leans in to kiss his cheek before heading into the house.

Isaac’s quiet, watching her go, before turning back to him. “I understand that whatever you’re doing for Bran requires secrecy. I don’t like it, but I do understand.” He scrubs his hand over his face and sighs. “What I will not allow is for a member of my pack to end up losing it because of said secret missions.”

“Boss--” Bucky’s not even sure what he’s going to say, but Isaac waves a hand and cuts him off.   


“Shut it, James.” Bucky does, radiating unhappiness. “You need to take better care of yourself. Eat. Sleep. Do whatever you need to with Alison or Captain America or whoever.” Isaac takes a step closer, eyes glowing gold. “But if I keep seeing you aren’t taking care of yourself, then I  _ will _ have a talk with Bran. And I am not above having him bench you. Got it?”

Bucky drops his eyes, he and the wolf both feeling the weight of their Alpha’s disapproval. “Got it.”

Isaac takes a deep breath, then steps back. “Now, go have fun with Alison.”

From the house, Alison calls, “Make sure the witch doesn’t get you, Isaac!”

Isaac gives a short growl, then rolls his shoulders. He shakes his head at Bucky. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Well, no witches here, boss.” Bucky winks, then laughs when Isaac threatens to cuff him upside the head.

***

He locks up the front door after Isaac leaves, then wanders into the living room. Alison’s got a bowl of popcorn and a couple of glasses of water on the coffee table, and she’s wiggling around, half contorting herself until she’s pulling her bra out of the arm of her t-shirt.

“Ahhh,” she sighs exaggeratedly, and he can’t help but grin.

“It’s like a magic trick every time.”

She laughs. “You just like easy access to the girls.” 

He smirks at the girls in question. “Can you blame me?”

“Come here.” She pats the couch next to her. “Fast cars await.”

Bucky drops down beside her and throws his right arm around her. “Thanks, Ali.” She grins in response, grabs the popcorn bowl, and cuddles up to him.

Part-way through the movie, Alison says quietly, “I haven’t seen Steve around lately.”

Bucky stiffens automatically, then forces himself to relax. “Nope.”

She turns to look at him, eyes assessing, while he pretends to watch the movie. “You slept with him.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.” She fumbles for the remote, pressing pause, and Bucky sighs before turning to face her. “I don’t wanna--”

“And then you picked a fight with him.”

“Really?” Bucky’s a little startled that she figured him out that fast.

“James.” She sounds exasperated. “It would be more surprising if you hadn’t done this with the last five people you dated.”

He folds his right arm across his chest defensively. “I’m not that predictable.”

“You really, really are.” Ali shakes her head. “Plus, I ran into Vince. He wanted to know why you were ‘sucking dick like it’s going out of style.’ His words.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Fuck Vince. I’m not  _ just _ sucking dicks.”

“James.” Ali’s voice is stern, clearly not in the mood. She reaches out and grabs his right shoulder, shakes it. “I’m not going to make you talk about it. But you should.”

Bucky watches her. Ali’s frowning in the way that means she’s worried about him, jaw set and stubborn like she’s going to argue him down. He reaches out and traces the familiar lines of her face with his fingers, cupping her chin. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it and closes it again. Runs his hand through his hair. Finally, he says, “C’mere.”

Alison raises her eyebrows, but she lets him pull her over, wriggle around on the couch until he’s lying back and she’s half on top of him, her head tucked under his chin. Even though it’s too warm for it, he drags the quilt off the back of the couch and onto them.

“I don’t want to talk about Steve,” he says quietly, once they’re tucked under the blanket. “But I do have a question.”

Alison tightens her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. “Shoot.”

He grimaces a little at her word choice. Then, picking his words carefully, he asks, “Biology aside, if you-- what would you do, if,” he pauses, taking deep breaths in and out, feeling Alison rise and fall against his chest with each breath. “If, hypothetically, you found out you had a kid.”

She freezes, and Bucky runs his hand up and down her back. Slowly, muscle by muscle, she relaxes again. “I think that would be shocked and upset.” Deep breath. “Angry.”

“Angry?” He tries to keep his voice light.

“If someone--” She stops, rubs her cheek against his t-shirt, breathing in his scent while he keeps rubbing her back. “I am the first one to say a woman has a right to make her own decisions. And some men are no better than sperm donors.” Her voice has that bitter twist that means she’s thinking of her dad. “But that doesn’t mean that if I found out someone had kept my kid from me, had made a kid with me but didn’t let me know, I wouldn’t be angry.” She growls a little. “Even if that’s not a logical reaction. Emotions aren’t logical.”

They’re both quiet. He listens to the sound of the DVD player turning itself off, the water running through the pipes. Alison’s arms are like iron bands around his chest and back, hugging him close. He can smell the burn of her anger, and underneath, sadness.

“Would you--” He takes a deep breath, tilts his head back to let it out. “Would you try to have a relationship with the kid, even if--” He closes his eyes, calls to mind their faces, big blue eyes and buzzcut hair, skulls looking too fragile and exposed. “Even if it kind of fucked you up?”

Ali slides her hand down his left side, making him stiffen. She leans in and kisses him over his heart. “There’s-- there’s levels, right? You want a relationship with the kid, you work at it.” She sighs. “But you can’t-- if that kid is in a place where your shit is going to make them worse, where you being fucked up is going to fuck them up?” He can smell the salt of her tears. “Unless the kid is in a situation where leaving them there would be dangerous to their health and well-being--” She props her head up to look at him. “Is it?”

“Mmm… no.”

“‘K. Then I think, in this case,” she squeezes him again. “You need to put on your oxygen mask first.”

They’re quiet for a while, both just breathing together. Eventually, Bucky brings his hand to her face, slides his fingers through her hair, so it slips out of its ponytail. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

She raises her head, smiles sadly at him. “Back atcha, kiddo. You want to talk more about this?”

He shakes his head.

“You gonna tell me all about your torrid night with Steve?” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Fuck no.”

She grins, rocks her hips into him. “You wanna make out for the rest of the movie and then have some naked fun?”

He laughs. “You read my mind.”

She sits up, straddling him, then pulls the blanket off them and onto the floor. “Good. I think that explosions and screwing is just what the doctor ordered.”

He rolls up so he can kiss her, shifting them so he’s sitting up on the couch and she’s in his lap, then starts the movie again. “Anything you say, Dr. Marquette.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's always gotta make a dramatic entrance.

Boston, June 18, 2013

It’s the bottom of the seventh, Boston’s up by one and they already won the first game of today’s double-header. Bucky’s slumped on the couch, enjoying the warm breeze blowing through the open windows. When the phone rings, he puts down his glass and fumbles for his phone, eyes never leaving the TV screen. When he finally puts his hand on the phone, he answers without looking. “Hello.”

“Hey--” Steve sounds out of breath, and Bucky sits up straight on the couch, game forgotten.

“Steve? You okay?”

He hears the sound of flesh hitting metal and a roar in the background, then a shout of “Rogers, get back on comms!” from a woman’s voice.

“I need some help,” Steve says quickly. “What can you tell me about kelpies?”

“Fuck you, Steve.” Bucky’s furious, grabbing the remote so he can turn off the game. “You couldn’t have asked this before you went into the field?”

“No one knew what it was until we got here!” Another clang and an angry bellow that’s definitely not human. “I’d like to contain it if possible.”

“Of course you fucking would.” Bucky’s already at his desk, opening his laptop and logging in, heading to the Irish folklore wiki he’d found and bookmarked a while ago. “I remember they like to drown people.” He types ‘kelpie’ into the search bar and hits enter.

“Yeah, got that,” Steve gasps. “Going silent, I’ll be back.”

The sound isolation on what must be Steve’s SHIELD comm is only okay, so silent means Bucky hears every word of the short, angry conversation between Steve and the rest of his team. Bucky activates the signal jammer app Tony’d put on his phone, hoping it’s not too late. He resists the urge to growl-- this is the first fucking time they’ve talked since March. 

When Steve comes back, Bucky talks quickly. “Absolutely do not try to ride it-- like, don’t actually sit on it. At all.”

Steve grunts.

“Cold iron will pierce its hide.” He reads through the information again, then adds, “Apparently, a blessed bridle will make it docile. You got a priest?”

There’s a thudding sound. Steve’s breathing heavily and Bucky wonders if there’s some idiot filming this-- he really needs to see what’s happening. “No priest, but we got some iron.”

“Well, stab the fucking thing, then.” Bucky opens another tab and pulls up Google.

There’s more yelling in the background and then Steve’s shouting, “Gotta go!” He cuts out before Bucky can hear anything else.

“Fuck.” He’s growling and the wolf is practically vibrating in the back of his brain. A few more clicks and he’s pulling up a website with grainy, shaky footage of Steve fighting something huge and dark, the person filming shouting excitedly. 

“Hold the camera straight, asshole,” he hisses, watching Steve jabbing at a huge, dark shape with his shield. Steve and the thing are surrounded by other people in dark clothes. Bucky can hear the crack of bullets being fired, and Steve’s too close, the thing’s moving too much. He clenches his fist on the one-handed keyboard hard enough to hear a crack. Then, from the top right of the screen, someone shouts “Cap!” and lobs a long piece of metal. The throw seems really weak, has a low arc that gains hardly any height, but Bucky has a feeling that it’s just really heavy. Steve catches the metal pole, then leaps on the thing’s back,  _ just like Bucky told him not to, _ and stabs it. He leaps off immediately after, and then three of the other dark figures are stabbing it with their own metal poles.

The camera wavers and whoever’s filming is shouting “Holy shit, holy shit!” as the kelpie starts to collapse in on itself.

Bucky stares at the screen until the video goes dark. He startles when he hears his phone buzzing against the desk. It takes a few seconds for him to answer it, hand shaking with adrenaline. “Steve?”

“I’m fine.” Steve sounds like himself, and Bucky’s gripped by a sudden rage. “I have to go, but I’m fine.”

Bucky’s voice is a low growl. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” 

“Call you later!” 

The phone goes dead in his hand. Bucky stares at it, then hurls it at the wall so hard it makes a dent, falls in pieces on the floor. The change takes him fast, bones cracking and muscles screaming, though he manages not to make a sound. It’s quicker than normal, all his rage channeled into shifting, until he’s standing on three feet, shaking off the pain. Thank God it’s after sunset, because Bucky needs to  _ run. _

***

When he gets home the next morning, still furious, the wolf is only barely soothed. He has just enough time to shift, shower, and get to the gym in time to open. He spends the early morning making his rounds, greeting gym members, checking in with them, spotting Mark as he lifts, and chatting with Terri about her plans to enter an open amateur boxing league. Jen and Sue talk to him about the self-defense course he offered to set up. It’s nice and normal, the ebb of his regulars heading to work soothing him, until it’s 10:30 in the morning and the place is nearly empty.

He does another round, checking all the equipment that’s not being used. Then, figuring the sparse crowd doesn’t need him and Gustavo has it covered, he decides to work out himself. He tapes his hand up and starts working one of the heavy bags. He starts easy, limbering up, but he can’t get Steve leaping on that God damned kelpie out of his mind,  _ fucking idiotic martyr _ _._ He’s vaguely aware he’s still in the gym but he’s not holding back anymore. The first time Steve calls him after that _ fucking  _ night and he’s in the middle of being so  _ f ucking reckless \-- _

Bucky stops, panting, muscles burning. There’s sand on the floor and the frame holding the bag to the wall is bent, listing to the right. Lucius catcalls something and Bucky glances over, manages to respond without really registering what he says. Lucius is smiling, though, so he must’ve said something normal. He feels calmer, at least, more centered.

He steps back from the bag, teeth going to the wrap on his hand. When he looks down, it’s tinged pink, his knuckles bloody, though they’re already healing. He looks back at the bag again, and this time he thinks distantly that he’s going to have to replace the whole set-up. 

***

The distant calm follows him the rest of the day, through emailing Tony to request a new Starkphone and ordering a new keyboard; through the rest of his shift; through placing an order at Joe’s for a couple of meat-lover’s pizzas. He ignores his laptop, settling himself on the patio table to eat the pizzas and drink a couple of beers. The food helps ground him a bit, and the feel of a cool bottle in his hand, taste of hops on his tongue, both make him feel more present, more… real. By the time the courier arrives at his house the next afternoon, he feels like himself again. He takes the box out to the patio and after he’s activated the new phone, he gives Tony a call.

“Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Tony says. “You going to tell me what happened to the other one? Or,” it sounds like Tony’s typing something, “why you have over a dozen missed calls and a bunch of voicemails from the Capsicle?”

Bucky barks out a laugh, then rubs his hand over his face. “Kid, I don’t have the energy to be angry for the rest of the day. Suffice to say, I forgot just how God damned annoying his battlefield heroics are.”

“Ah. So you saw the video.”

“Worse.” Bucky closes his eyes and sees Steve leaping on the kelpie. “He called me during it.”

“Jesus, you’re kidding.” Bucky growls, and Tony’s voice is horrified. “You aren’t kidding. Fuck.”

“Yeah.” 

In the silence that follows, Bucky stares at the backyard. The grass needs cutting.

“Did he call from the SHIELD phone?” Tony huffs. “Wait, why am I asking you. Jarvis, please look up the old man’s phone records.”

As he waits, Bucky forces himself to calculate whether he needs more gas for the mower, whether he has time to get that and cut the grass before he goes into the gym tonight. He’s just come down on the side of waiting until the weekend when Tony’s voice comes back on.

“Good news is he called on his Starkphone and you used my app. Bad news, it’s entirely possible SHIELD traced it. Jarvis is checking, just a minute.” Tony takes a breath, then his voice turns aggressively cheerful. “So-- how about Dem Yankees?” 

Bucky snorts in disbelief. “Well, first off, I know you could give a shit about baseball, but I’m fairly certain Oakland’s going to sweep them in the next road series and the Red Sox are up by two.”

“Me, not care about baseball?” Tony sounds affronted. “Why, I have season tickets--”

“And you never use them because ‘baseball is soooo boring.’” Bucky grins, because mocking Tony about baseball is always fun. “I know for a fact the only games you’ve ever sat through are the ones I took you to back when the Red Sox were shit.”

Tony laughs. “Whatever, the tickets are a good investment and the execs love a night out in my box.” There’s a pause and a ping, then, “Once we solve this, you can have tickets. Isn’t there some game coming up between the Yankees and Dodgers? You can bring Rogers and it will be hilarious watching you decide which team you hate more.”

Bucky resolutely decides not to think about taking Steve to a baseball game, forces back memories of the smell of roasted peanuts and stale beer. “Inter-league play is a tool of the devil and yes, I know the Cardinal of Boston agrees with me. What did you find out about my phone.”

“Hmmm.” Tony’s quiet a moment, then says, “Looks like that app blocked anyone trying to get through, so score one for my mad coding skills and another for your quick thinking.” He huffs out a sigh that sounds more relieved than Bucky expects. “You’re okay, but tell Cap to be more careful in future.”

“I will.” Bucky taps his fingers on the table. “How are you doing with analyzing those files?”

“I sent the financials to Deep Throat, he said that was his thing.” There’s a sound of liquid hitting glass, then Tony swallowing. “I’m working on the rest of it. Well, Jarvis is, right buddy?”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis interjects. “And may I say, sir, it’s rather fascinating.”

Before Bucky can thank Jarvis, Tony cuts back in. “You and Charles making any progress on your thing? Your DNA thing?”

Bucky stares down at a line of carpenter ants diligently marching along the edge of the patio. Concentrates on that and nothing else. “Some.” Before Tony can ask anything more, he says, “Thank you, Jarvis.”

“You’re quite welcome, Sergeant.”

Tony starts to bluster, and Bucky speaks over it. “I’ll talk to you later, Tony. Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony bitches. “Thanking my AI before you thank me.”

“Well, Jarvis is doing the heavy lifting.” Bucky hangs up then, before Tony can say anything else. He looks down at the ants again, checks the time, then sighs and heads inside to get ready for his shift.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching.

Undisclosed location, June 2013 

40.7525703 x -73.9776273

41.2800743 x -73.04869919999999

42.4207560 x -71.114413

42.3456473 x -71.08729649999998

42.4207560 x -71.114413

42.3608169 x -71.09647840000002

42.4207560 x -71.114413

42.3724909 x -71.13958300000002

42.4207560 x -71.114413

42.3456473 x -71.08729649999998

42.3608169 x -71.09647840000002

42.4207560 x -71.114413

  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Round and round.

Boston, MA, June 24, 2013 

Bucky waits nearly a week before he calls Steve back. He waits until he thinks he can talk to Steve without completely losing his temper-- despite the wolf’s constant insistence that they need to see, talk to, know that Steve is all right. Bucky waits because the full moon is here, because running with his pack-- Maelle leading a game of chase, Alison tackling him into a rhododendron, Isaac serving hot chocolate and eggs in the morning-- is settling. Because, afterward he’s finally calm, or at least he’s less angry. He’s relaxed enough that he thinks he can handle Steve’s self-sacrificing bullshit. Maybe, he thinks, maybe even calm enough to talk about the last few months of silent treatment.

It’s a couple of rings before Steve picks up. He sounds distracted when he says, “Just a sec, damn it--” Bucky smiles as he listens to Steve cursing-- he doesn’t have clear memories of Steve cursing in the past, but just hearing it feels so familiar. “Sorry, just had to turn on that app. You still there?”

“I’m here.” Bucky doesn’t say more than that. He needs a minute to listen to Steve breathe, to let the wolf give something like a wiggle in his head.

“So, uh.” Hearing this, Bucky can picture Steve rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand, looking sheepish. It’s something he _ knows, _beyond actual memories, that Steve hates apologizing and hates awkward conversations. “Look,” Steve sounds frustrated. “I’m, uh. Not sorry that I called you. Last week. But. I am sorry that I didn’t uh-- that I had to hang up quick.”

Bucky sighs, sets the phone down on the arm of the couch, and rubs his hand over his face. Fucking Steve. Then he picks up the phone again. “You realize that’s not why I’m mad at you?”

There’s a wet sound, like Steve just swallowed. “Uh--”

“I mean, the kelpie,” Bucky winces. “I’m definitely mad about that.” He knows it’s not going to do anything and yet he can’t help himself. “Because, you acted like an idiot. And if that thing had carried you away to the ends of the earth and eaten you, you would have _ fucking deserved it _ for jumping on its fucking back _ when I specifically told you not to!” _

“You, uh.” Steve’s voice goes up half an octave. “You saw that?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Steve. You think I wouldn’t go looking to see what happened after you _ hung up on me? _ Pal, you’re stupider than I thought. And that was a dumb fucking move.”

“Fuck you, it was the only--” 

“Look,” Bucky cuts him off. “I don’t fucking care. We haven’t talked since March. And then you call in the middle of a fight, ask my advice, fucking ignore half of what I say to you, and then it’s radio silence again? Fuck. You.” He stands up, heads out into the backyard to pace on the lawn

They’re both quiet, Bucky can hear Steve breathing faster, louder, as he stalks through his backyard. He can hear the occasional car turn onto his street, his neighbors calling their kids in. The wet sound of Steve licking his lips.

“That’s pretty rich,” Steve bites out. “Particularly coming from someone who still hasn’t bothered to fill me in on whatever the fuck went down in March.”

“Look,” Bucky frowns. “You aren’t a rookie. You know how this works. Everyone knows exactly what they need to know for their role in the operation.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Steve barks at him. “I am not an _ operative _ that you are running, Bucky. This is exactly the prob--”

Bucky takes the phone away from his ear. He holds it down, speaker towards the grass, and looks out across the yard. Steve is still talking, but he ignores it and waits until Steve stops again. 

“Look,” Bucky takes a breath, lets it fill his stomach with air. He lets it out again. “I need you to let this go. I need you to trust that I’m telling you what you need to know. Okay? I’m not—” He sighs. “You’ve been out of the picture for a long time, Steve.”

There’s a long pause. Bucky can hear a slight creaking noise. He thinks Steve is walking across old floorboards. 

Finally, Steve sighs. “Fine. I can take a hint.” He sighs again. “Well, what do you want to talk about? You got any more from Tony on this ‘phase 3’ thing?”

“No.” Bucky thinks about that-- he hasn’t heard jack about “phase 3” since before the new year. He hadn’t thought to ask Tony about him the last time he saw him, but now he wonders. “The kid hasn’t mentioned it in a while-- I’ll ask next time we talk.” He takes a deep breath, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Tells himself to man up. “I asked him to pull a bunch of SHIELD’s personnel data, though. Your questions about STRIKE, I think you might be onto something.”

“Really?” He can’t get a read on Steve’s voice. “That was a few months ago.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, I know. But, uh. Charles and I-- we found some, uh, intel back in March and it--” He digs his boot into a divot in the grass. “It looks like Hydra’s continuing with their genetic engineering bullshit.” 

“Shit. Fuck.” Steve sounds like he’s moving around-- Bucky wonders if he’s pacing too. “God-damn Nazis.”

Bucky can’t help but smile bitterly. “Yep, fucking Nazis.” He thinks again about telling Steve about the kids, about-- His stomach turns at the thought, at Steve knowing he-- The wolf whines in the back of his head, and he leans against the fence, feels the rough wood through his thin t-shirt. “We’re-- Me and Charles, we’re looking to see if anyone in SHIELD was created in a lab. We figure it’s a pretty safe bet their loyalties will be with Hydra.”

“Yeah, makes sense.” Steve takes another breath. Says uncertainly, “Tell me if you find anything?” 

Bucky hears the unspoken _I wish you could trust me, _bangs his head lightly back against the fence. Damn it. “Yeah,” he tells Steve, “Of course I will. Soon as we find something, I’ll let you know.”

* * *

Boston, MA, July 9, 2013 

For the past couple of weeks, Bucky’s been reviewing data from Tony and Charles, trying to see if it pings any patterns in his head, trying to figure out what the fuck Hydra’s planning. Wading through this shit is-- even if nothing actively hits his triggers, it sticks to his brain, dredges up subconscious trauma, mostly-forgotten memories. His sleep is for shit; he’s exhausted and jumpy as hell. Late Tuesday evening he’s home, sitting at his desk and staring at spreadsheets. When his phone buzzes, it startles him badly enough that he nearly tips out of his chair. 

“What?” He’s growling a little when he answers it. 

“Bucky?” Steve sounds cautious, clearly not expecting to have his head bitten off. 

Bucky sighs, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Shit. Sorry.”

Steve’s voice is careful. “This a bad time?”

“No.” He stands up, grabbing the phone, then heads into the kitchen. “Just. Fucking Hydra.” 

“Ah.” 

Bucky leans against the fridge for a minute, while Steve stays silent. Then he forces himself to straighten, open the door and pull out the cranberry juice. 

“So, uh, maybe this isn’t a good time. But, uh.” Steve fumbles a bit, and Bucky wonders what else can go fucking wrong as he puts the juice on the counter, reaches into the cabinet for a glass. “Fury asked me to call.”

“What?” Bucky freezes, hand halfway into the cabinet, heart tripping double-time.

“I mean, no. Not--” Steve clears his throat, then starts again. “Negotiations with the werewolves are stalled out. He asked if I could talk to my ‘werewolf contacts’ and see what’s going on.”

“Oh.” Adrenaline is fucking _ bursting _ through his system and Bucky leans his palm on the counter, looking down at the formica countertop and taking a deep breath in. “Fuck, Steve.”

Steve’s voice sounds apologetic. “I think he’s worried that you guys are going to pull out.”

“Us guys, huh?” Bucky flexes his hand on the counter, making it into a fist then flattening it out again.

“Bucky--”

“You hear the latest from Congress?” Bucky’s not part of negotiations, but he doesn’t have to be when all it takes is listening to the news. He doesn’t wait for Steve to answer, knows he’s gotta be hearing the same things Bucky is. “They’re talking about reservations, like the Fae. Registration. Tracking devices. They want to tag us, like wolves in the wild.”

“I know, Buck, it’s fucking nuts.” Steve sounds frustrated. “Fury’s pissed, says that doesn’t represent reality. Hell, they haven’t even moved that Endangered Species Act garbage to the floor-- I hear it’s stuck in committee and they don’t have the votes.”

“Yet.” Bucky rubs his forehead, headache gathering behind his eyes. He grinds his teeth, then pulls a glass out of the cabinet and pours some juice. “We’ve been doing PR, I don’t know, maybe it’s helping.” He takes a sip of the juice. As the flavor bursts across his tongue, he wonders when he last ate anything. “But I been listening to talk radio, and it’s sure as hell not working on everyone.”

Steve groans. “Fucking bullshit spewed by ignorant assholes. It’s like the equivalent of those guys who used to stand on a soapbox screaming at a crowd.”

“Except guys on a soapbox didn’t have an audience of thousands. Hell, tens of thousands.” Bucky takes another swallow. “Look, I’ll give Charles a call. I need to talk to him anyway. But he’s gonna want to know what you guys are coming to the table with.” He hopes Fury knows better than to think ‘it died in committee’ is good enough.

Steve sounds earnest. “I’m pretty sure Fury’s working with the other security agencies, with the military, and they’re coming up with something a lot more concrete and less extreme. But it’s not going to be immediate.”

Bucky drags his fingers through his hair, then opens the fridge again, figures he might as well eat. “Well, tell them to hurry the fuck up. The status quo isn’t helping anyone but Hydra and the rest of the bigots.”

***

He weighs snapping at Charles vs. stalled negotiations and decides he’d rather wait to call Charles until he can be coherent. He hasn’t been invited into the negotiations and he’s not exactly eager to insert himself. 

He manages a decent night’s sleep, for once, no shadowy, blood-filled nightmares. Instead, he dreams that he’s in bed with Steve, bulky body behind him, arms wrapped around his chest. Steve’s scent surrounds him and it doesn’t matter that his back is to the bedroom door because whoever tries to come through would have to go through Steve first. 

He wakes up slowly, the dream clinging, until he blinks his eyes open and sees the bedroom door, same as always. He rolls onto his back, sheet catching beneath him and slipping down. His dick is hard, and he runs his hand over his chest, pinching his left nipple hard enough to gasp. He keeps going, hand sliding under the sheet to rub the skin over his stomach, lower. He avoids his cock for the moment, traces patterns on the inside of his thighs, lets his hand drift back to his perineum, legs shifting so his feet can brace against the mattress. 

He lets himself remember what it felt like to have Steve’s mouth on his cock, licking him, sucking. That night, he’d wanted to forget everything he’d seen at that base, wanted Steve to move hard and fast. Now he remembers how Steve had worked him slowly, mouth wet and hot. He raises his hand, throwing off the sheet, and licks his palm, spits in it, before gripping his dick. He takes his time, lets the pleasure build. When he finally goes over, he lets himself moan, lets himself wish, briefly, that Steve’s here, singing tunelessly in the kitchen while making coffee. He pulls the sheet back up, using a corner of it to wipe his hand, then rolls over, dragging the sheet with him. He dozes until the drying come drives him out of bed and into the shower.

Under the water, he wonders when the hell he got his wires so crossed that dreaming of Steve makes him feel _ safe _ _._ He’s sure as hell enjoyed memories of that night in March before, but Steve is a reckless idiot who needs a keeper, roaring into trouble without thinking. He scrubs shampoo into his scalp, turns his head to face the spray. He’s got to get his head in the game. 

***

He’s taking the afternoon shift at the gym, so he makes himself a big breakfast at home. He lazes at the table, lingering over a pot of coffee and the morning paper. Eventually, though, he works his way through every section of the paper, including the business news, and he can’t put it off any longer. He takes a deep breath, then picks up his mobile and hits the speed dial for Charles.

“Hello, James.” Charles’ voice is tight and unhappy when he picks up. “This isn’t a good time.”

“Okay.” Bucky catches other voices in the room, resigns himself to being on speaker-- there’s no privacy in being a werewolf. “It’s just that Steve called me, Fury asked him to reach out.”

That shuts up the other voices, then Bran’s there, sounds like he’s right next to the phone. “Fury specifically asked him to talk to you?”

“No, just to his werewolf contact.” Bucky swirls his coffee around in the mug, then puts the mug down on the table. 

“Who’s Steve?” he hears in the background, while Bran asks, “What’s the message?”

Someone else answers, “He dresses up in a red, white, and blue suit--”

“Are you talking about Captain America?” The voice goes high with surprise. “Motherloving son of a jackrabbit!”

Bucky grins, picks up his mug again, and then startles when Bran says, “James.”

“Sir. Fury asked that you be patient. Not go making alliances with the Fae.” Bucky takes a breath, the cooling coffee sloshing in his mug. “He’s working on something with the military, Steve says. Something a little more reasonable than the latest chatter.”

Bran hums at him over the phone line. “Interesting. Did he say anything else?”

“No.” Bucky hesitates, then adds, “I did point out that things aren’t sounding so good right now.”

“Perhaps not as bad as all that.” Bran is quiet for a moment before continuing, Bucky can hear someone else rustling papers in the room. “We have a meeting with Senator Campbell this week.”

“The one from Minnesota?” Bucky frowns. “I thought he was dead set against werewolves.”

“He’s willing to talk, which is more than some of the others in this so-called ‘Freedom Caucus.’” Bucky wonders if Bran did the air quotes. If Bran is even aware of air quotes, and how, and has to stop that train of thought before he loses it completely. “We’re talking with whoever we can. Samuel is taking a meeting with Congresswoman Baucus of Montana next week.”

Bucky nods. Montana’s delegation is small, but the Baucuses have been part of it for a generation. He’s heard they have a lot of pull. “All right. Anything you want me to convey back to Steve?”

“You can tell Steve the message has been delivered.” Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair. That’s about all he expected, but it’s not great. “Thank you, James.”

He’s about to hang up when he hears, “Wait!” There’s the muffled sounds of flesh sliding against flesh, then a new voice comes on. “James, this is Samuel.”

“Uh, hi, Sam.” Bucky has rarely interacted with Charles’ older brother over the years, and the last time he did rises up in his memory. He takes a steadying breath. 

Bucky hears the sound of a door closing and footsteps on carpet, on wood floors, another door opening and closing. Finally, Samuel starts talking again. “There’s at least four people at SHIELD whose genetics show signs of being tampered with by Hydra.”

Bucky freezes, his hand going still on the table top. “What?”

“Charles shared the data you collected with me,” Sam continues. “I’ve been able to figure out some of the science of what they were doing. Isolating genetic markers is tricky, but I’ve definitely found four.” Bucky holds his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can hear Samuel swallowing. “Ah, right. I should tell you that as far as I can tell, none of these ones have your DNA.”

The breath Bucky exhales is shaky at best, and he’s bending over quickly in his chair to get his head between his knees. He feel jittery and nauseous, then he has to force himself to breathe, slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Faintly, under the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, he hears Samuel counting to four over and over. It takes some time before he can match his breathing to the count.

Eventually, when his breath has evened out and he’s able to sit up, he hears, “I’m sorry, James.” Samuel sounds contrite. “There probably was a better way to tell you that. I apologize.”

Bucky grunts. “S’okay.”

“Yeah, I’m going to go ahead and call that a fib.” Samuel sounds like he’s smiling, and then his voice turns serious again. “The four we found appear to have been spliced with Fae genetic material, though we haven’t completely figured out what kind of Fae. I think Charles told you that we’re treading lightly in our discussions with the Grey Lords and Arianna isn’t a scientist. I’ll have Charles send you the information so you can warn your friend.” Before Bucky can respond, Samuel mutters what sounds like a curse. “I’m sorry, I have to go. If you don’t hear from Charles in a day or two, make sure you call him.” And then there’s nothing but a dial tone. 

Bucky sits slumped in his chair, all energy gone. In his head, the wolf is on edge, temper vicious, but Bucky needs a minute to walk back from his panic. Still only three, that he knows of. Still just three people-- little kids-- made up with his DNA. “Three,” he repeats over and over, “just three.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally.

Boston, July 14, 2013 

“Hell-o.” Steve sounds strangely hearty on the phone, and Bucky stares down at it a minute before shaking his head and responding. 

“Hi. Got a minute?”

“Give me a couple of minutes to start walking?” Steve calls a goodbye, and he’s answered by a chorus of mostly female voices.

Bucky grins, standing up. He taps his fingers on the papers he has spread out on the dining room table. “Awww, is that your fan club?”

“Shut up, asshole.” He sounds resigned. “The ladies at church think I’m a nice young man that could use some mothering.”

Bucky starts laughing. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alice’s pound cake is aces, though.” Bucky’s opens his mouth-- “Before you even ask, she’s 70 if she’s a day and she’s got three granddaughters I’d be just perfect for.”

Bucky laughs so hard he can barely stand upright while Steve mutters about how at least Alice is kind of discreet and how Ethel had shoved her grandson at Steve after Easter mass. That only makes Bucky laugh harder.

Finally, he manages to get himself under control, leaning against the wall for support. “Amusing as your love life always is, Rogers, that’s not actually why I called.”

“I figured.” Steve sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m far enough away, tell me what’s up.”

Bucky lets the laughter drain out of him, turns to stare out the window at the quiet street in front of his house. “You know how Charles and I have been looking into SHIELD personnel?”

“Yeah.” Steve sighs. “I’m gonna bet you found something.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

Steve breathes quietly in and out, then asks, “STRIKE?”

Bucky laughs again, this time entirely without humor. “You’d think so, but no. It’s possible they’re getting some kind of special steroids Hydra cooked up or something, but that’s not in these files.” 

“So if it’s not STRIKE--”

Bucky rests his forehead against the window. “We found records of at least four people who show some signs of Hydra tampering with their genetics. Looks like they inserted non-human DNA into their genetic code. Our best guess is Fae.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Steve’s voice is halfway between curse and prayer. “That’s. That’s really fucking specific.”

“Yeah.” Bucky takes a breath. “Probably a good idea for you to keep an eye on them. I’d, uh. I’d rather not give out their identities over the phone or email.” He closes his eyes, this is so fucking awkward. “Do you think you could make it up here sometime soon?”

Steve’s quiet. Bucky can hear the sounds of cars going by, catches snatches of other people’s conversations. Steve’s silence stretches and Bucky’s opening his mouth to say something, anything-- “You really want me to come up?”

“Yeah.” Bucky bangs his head gently against the window, that was probably waaay too fast. “I mean, yes. It’s the best way to trade intel.”

Steve’s voice is skeptical. “So now we’re trading intel?” 

_ God damn it. _ “Just-- come up, okay? We can-- We’ll talk.”

“Talk.” Steve still doesn’t quite sound convinced.

“Yeah, talk.” In the quiet that follows, Bucky can feel the knots in his stomach tighten. 

Finally, _ finally, _Steve says, “All right. I’ll let you know when I can come up. We’ll-- talk.”

Bucky lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Any time, Steve. Any time.”

* * *

Boston, MA, August 10, 2013 

The weekend is not going well.

Steve arrived on Friday night, seemed drained from the deceptions necessary to get here. Since then, conversation has been either awkward and stilted or non-existent. Bucky’s grateful that Saturday afternoon is the pack’s regular gym time and he didn’t have time to cancel it or back out. He goes, and Steve comes with him. Enough people and space-- fewer chances for Bucky to further fuck things up.

Steve’s working with the kids-- he was thrilled to see them and they gave him a hero’s welcome. Now he’s got them doing two-on-two drills, Nita and Andrew vs. Maelle and Jummah. Bucky watches the easy way Steve interacts with them all-- Maelle nodding seriously when he gives her advice, Jummah mimicking the new move he’s showing them, letting Steve step in to correct him.

“He’s good with them.” Alison’s taking a breather from her practice match against Noah. “And they missed him.”

“Yeah.” Bucky looks down at her, her face red with exertion and tendrils of pink hair damp with sweat sticking to her face. 

She takes a swig from her water bottle, then elbows him. “So, did you guys talk?”

Bucky grimaces, running his hand over his face.

She rolls her eyes. “That good, huh?” 

At Bucky’s grunt, she pokes him below the ribs, making him flinch. Bucky growls, just a little, but at least a dozen heads turn to look at him. He resists the urge to growl louder. Instead, he stares down at Alison for a minute, an idea dawning.

Ali hands him her water bottle and reaches up to pull out her ponytail and then redo it, smoothing up strands from around her face. “Dude, what’s that look for.”

“You and Liss should come over for dinner tonight.”

She freezes for a second, then finishes with her ponytail and drops her hands slowly to her hips. “I don’t--” She shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“What?” Bucky knows this is a _ great _ idea. He smiles, cajoling. “I’ll grill up some steaks and we’ll hang out in the backyard.” He imagines the three of them over at the picnic table while he mans the grill. Steve will loosen up because Ali and Liss are great and then maybe the awkwardness will… ease. He knows it won’t go away entirely, but easing would certainly help. “It’ll be fun.”

Ali gestures for her water bottle. When he hands it over, she takes another drink, looking at him over the rim. She swallows and snaps the lid closed, narrowing her eyes at him. “And then you don’t have to be alone with him.”

“Yeah.” He sighs when her expression reaches supremely unimpressed. “Ali, it is so fucking awkward you don’t even know.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, water bottle dangling from her left hand. “Maybe if you nut up and talk to him about what happened when he was here last time, it would be less awkward.”

He winces. “Or maybe we’d just go back to not speaking to each other.”

She waves a hand toward Steve, who’s across the room with the kids, then points at Bucky. “Because you’re doing a great job of that now.” 

“Please, Ali.” He gives her his most devastating puppy dog eyes, a last ditch effort that’s probably futile-- Alison is largely immune to the puppy dog eyes.

She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth. Then snaps it closed and stares at him. Narrows her eyes and takes another deep breath in through her nose. Then she says slowly, “All right, yes.” She glances over at Steve again. Bucky follows her gaze, watches Steve throw his head back, laughing at something Andrew said, has to force himself to look away from the line of Steve’s throat. He looks back down at Alison, who purses her lips. “Liss and I will join you for dinner. 7:30?”

“That’s fine, that’s _ great.” _ He’s not sure what changed her mind, but he’s not going to ask. Just thank god she decided to help him out.

***

Steve’s nervous when Lisette and Alison arrive. Bucky watches him nearly drop the six-pack Ali hands him and Lisette smiles as she gently tells him she’ll hold onto the wine, it’s too nice to end up on the floor. Steve blushes, gets even redder when Liss puts her hand on his arm and leans up to kiss him on both cheeks, copper curls brushing against his face. “No matter, Steve. I’m glad to meet you.”

Steve manages to pull himself together, to crook his arm and offer it to her like they’re in some black and white movie. Liss eats it up, lets him escort her out to the patio while Alison laughs. “I think we were just outclassed by a novice.”

“You were,” Steve calls back. Bucky smiles, and then wonders why he feels a little sour about Steve’s suave act.

He looks down and catches Alison gazing up at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to follow the beer. Let me know if you want some help.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her out toward the back. “Go have fun while I slave away in--”

“You threw wine, oil, and pepper in a bag and then tossed in the steaks, Buck.” He jumps as Steve appears in the living room door. “We slaved worse than that over campfire beans and spam in ‘44.” 

Alison grins. “Campfire spam? You’ve been holding out on me, James.”

“I think I blocked that out of my head,” he says, still watching Steve. 

“Corkscrew?” Steve leans in the doorway, crossing his arms. He looks from one to other. “Lisette said you have one.”

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky feels frozen, can’t tear his gaze away from staring at Steve’s arms.

Alison snorts. “I know where it is,” she says. “I’ll get it.”

Steve stays in the doorway. It’s maybe ten feet away and Bucky can hear him breathing, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. Tries not to remember when he saw that chest bare, slicked with sweat--

And then Ali’s back, her shoulder knocking his as she walks past him into the living room. He drags his eyes away from Steve to look at her as she calls, “Found it!” She ignores the tension, just nudges Steve with her elbow. “You gonna share those smooth moves, buddy? Or were they just for my lady.”

Steve looks down at her and smiles, slow. It feels familiar to Bucky, like he’s watched Steve smile like that a thousand times and he can’t remember even one of them. Steve offers Ali his arm, and she smiles back at him as she takes it. They turn and head outside, leaving Bucky feeling strangely cold despite the August heat.

***

Bucky’s quiet over dinner, watching Steve laugh and joke and tell stories with Ali and Liss, just like he imagined. Liss tries to call him on it, but Ali glances over at him and then shrugs. “I’ve heard all his best stories a dozen times.”

Bucky protests weakly. “I have some great stories!”

“I’ve heard about that time you got caught sneaking into Ebbetts Field like fifty times,” she scoffs.

Steve cocks his head. “That time with Frankie Malone?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky looks down, takes a sip of his beer. When he looks back, Steve’s smiling, laugh lines deepening around his eyes. 

Steve launches into another story and then Liss tells one about her days as a nanny in Cote d’Azur. They keep going as the night settles in, the three of them trading stories while Bucky watches.

***

At some point, Bucky’s not sure when, the story-telling and laughter starts to grate. He steps away from the picnic table where the others are, makes himself clear away plates and empty beer bottles, standing in the dark kitchen, leaning over the sink and taking deep breaths. It feels like something’s crawling under his skin, sharp needles digging in. The wolf’s a little restless, but he can’t really blame it on the furball-- this is mostly him.

He goes back outside and Liss is loose-limbed from the wine, slumped into Alison and giggling. Steve grins broadly at them from across the table. Ali looks over to him, narrowing her eyes, can probably smell something’s not right, but he speaks before she can ask awkward questions.

“I don’t know about you all, but it’s a few days to the full moon and I need to move.” He stands a few feet from the table, makes himself smile invitingly. “Anyone up for going dancing?”

“Dancing?” Steve’s voice almost breaks, it goes up so high.

“Yeah, dancing.” Bucky cocks his head. Cocks his hip, too, makes it a challenge. “It’s like fighting, only fewer casualties.”

“Only if you do it right,” Steve mutters under his breath.

Before Bucky can follow that up, Alison clicks her tongue. “Really?” She glances down at Liss, then back up at him. “Where were you thinking?”

If he’s honest, he wasn’t, so he just names the first place that comes to mind. “Paradise.”

Liss straightens a bit, turns on the bench so she’s facing Ali. They have one of those silent conversations couples are so good at. From what he can tell, Liss has had enough wine that she wants to get her groove on and Alison--

“Well, at least they have good music.” She shrugs, sounding resigned. She looks up at Bucky. “We reserve the right to take off at any time.”

“Of course.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. “With anyone you want, even.”

There’s a choked off noise and they all turn to look at Steve, who’s gone beet red.

Liss throws up her hands dramatically. “And we were doing so well making him think we were normal!”

Alison laughs hard enough she nearly falls off the picnic table.

*** 

Bucky hadn’t realized how often he’s been coming here until he walks in the door and Javier, the bouncer, gives a wolf whistle. A group of young guys look over from where they’re gathered around the bar and then Bucky’s surrounded, all of them pulling him to the floor. He looks back and waves, hears Steve say to Liss and Ali, “I guess Bucky’s, uh, pretty popular?”

He barely hears Alison’s dry, “You’re not wrong,” before he’s swallowed up by the dancefloor, music drowning out anything but the beat. He surrenders himself to the music, resolves he’ll find Steve after the next song.

***

The bruises are already coming up dark, livid on the pale skin where Bucky was gripping the kid’s hip. Bucky’s honestly not sure the sequence of events that led him to think it was a good idea to blow this guy in the back hallway of the bar, a place he’s gotten way too familiar with lately. It’s not like he can blame it on alcohol and he usually has better impulse control than this, but--

But, he’d stopped to grab a drink at the bar and watched Steve dancing on the edge of the floor with Liss and Ali, Ali plastered against his back and Liss blanketing his front, close enough that her curls must have been tickling his nose.

But, he’d heard Liss telling Alison, “_ Ma caille, _ we should _ definitely _ take this one home with us,” gripping Steve’s hi and pulling him closer.

But, he’d heard Steve give a little laugh in reply, say, all aw-shucks, “I’d be lucky to get a girl half as pretty as you.”

He’d seen red, slammed his beer down hard enough to crack the bottle, plunged back in the crowd before he did something as fucking stupid as go after his best friend’s girlfriend. Who, by the way, he also adores.

_ Fuck. _ He’s still on his knees and he stares at the bruises, feeling a little sick. He usually holds himself back a little better, or at least checks with his partners before they start, but he’d wanted the comforting anonymity of a club hookup and some dick down his throat more than he’d been thinking about anything else.

The kid stretches, languid and relaxed. Bucky tenses, rolls up to his feet, takes a step back. “Sorry about--” he waves to the kid’s hip.

The kid glances down, touches the darkening skin, then gazes up at him, dopey smile on his face. “Don’t worry about me, man.” Visibly pulls himself together and then gestures to Bucky’s crotch, offers, “You want me to?”

Bucky can’t imagine anything he wants less. “Nah, kid. You’re good.”

He turns away then, heads back out toward the dance floor, scanning the room. He sees Ali and Liss moving smoothly together, just the two of them, but he still feels that jagged slash of _ something _ rip through him. He turns his back on them quickly, keeps moving, and he heaves a little sigh when he catches sight of Steve leaning against the bar.

Steve’s just standing there alone, looking a little uncomfortable. Bucky has a moment of double-vision, a smaller version of Steve with the same look on his face at some long-ago dancehall or bar. It makes him smile as he heads in Steve’s direction. He could use a drink to get that kid’s taste out of his mouth.

He knows when Steve catches sight of him, watches his smile light up briefly, before it dims a second later. It’s-- Bucky promises himself that he’ll deal with this somehow. He doesn’t like being the reason Steve’s smile dims.

He steps up next to Steve and catches the bartender’s eye, orders a water. Steve sways toward him, then leans back and frowns.

“You have fun with Liss and Ali?” Bucky’s proud of himself for sounding amused and unconcerned.

Steve’s watching him, studying him. He nods. “They were very patient with me.”

Bucky takes a sip of water, feels Steve’s eyes on him while he swallows. Raises the bottle to his mouth again, when there’s a commotion at the end of the bar. He turns and sees the kid he was just with jostling against a group of his friends, winces as someone with a voice like a drill shrieks, “Oh, you did not!”

“I did, look!” The kid bumps his friend again, harder, and Steve, who’s a little closer, leans toward the disturbance. Bucky’s annoyed, doesn’t want to think about this kid anymore tonight, wants Steve’s eyes back on him. He starts to turn away, opens his mouth to say something, anything. His gaze catches on movement, though, and he freezes as the kid tugs up his shirt, tugs down his jeans, so that anyone can see the bruises coming up on his left hip. _ Only _ his left hip. “See, I told you!” the kid screeches, triumphant. Beside him, Steve freezes. 

‘Fuck,’ Bucky thinks as Steve turns back to him, face thunderous. He slams the beer bottle he’s holding on the bar, grabs Bucky hard enough that he drops his water bottle, and drags him toward the entrance. It’s so sudden, so shocking, that Bucky doesn’t even resist, just lets himself be towed along.

Steve’s not gentle as he bulls his way through the crowd to the door, dragging Bucky behind him. When they reach the doors, Javier stands up, shaking his shoulders out like he’s getting ready for a fight. He opens his mouth to say something, but Bucky shakes his head. “It’s fine, Javi.”

Javier nods his head and steps aside. Steve still gives him a look that could scorch paint as he marches by, dragging Bucky behind him and stiff-arming through the doors and into the night. He stomps up the street about half a block, then drags Bucky into an alley. The space is dark, shaded from the street and smelling of trash and motor oil. When he finally lets go, he gives an extra push so that Bucky smashes face-first into the brick wall. It’s an asshole move, and Bucky bares his teeth as he turns to face him, but Steve’s already shouting.

“What the hell!” Steve’s voice is rough and angry as he stands in front of Bucky, arms akimbo. “It’s not like you’ve ever been choosy, but you used to care a helluva lot more about making sure no one got hurt!”

Bucky straightens from the wall, glaring. “Did you just call me easy?” 

“Fuck, Barnes, you’ve been easy since you were 15 years old!” Steve’s furious, waving his arms around. “You didn’t used to be _ mean _ about it!”

Bucky stares at him. “What?”

Steve keeps shouting. “That kid’s hip was bruised all to hell-- it’s lucky you didn’t do permanent damage!” He lowers his voice then, tone going vicious. “That how you treat gir-- people these days? You’ll fuck anyone but you don’t give a damn if they’re hurt?”

_ “What?” _ And that’s not fucking fair, he’s usually a hell of a lot more careful. Hell, he apologized to that kid as soon as he realized he left bruises.

Steve throws his arms in the air, turns and walks a few steps further into the alley. “God, every time I think we can figure a way forward it’s like I run up against a wall.” He whirls back to face Bucky. “Jesus, the whole reason we started up was you didn’t _ want _ to leave bruises!” He narrows his eyes. “Unless-- was that kid a werewolf?”

Bucky stares at him, completely confused. He feels like he left sanity back at the bar. “No.” 

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky can read disappointment along with fury in the lines of his shoulders. “I guess you don’t need someone who heals like you do after all. You don’t give a shit if you bruise them or not.” Then he drags his hand down his face, turns away again, kicks the wall hard enough to damage the brick. “It’s like I don’t even _ know you _ anymore!”

Bucky’s staring at him, brain stuck on a loop of ‘didn’t want to leave bruises’ because what? _ What? _ He can’t get past it. It’s so far from what he-- He shakes his head because that doesn’t matter right now. Lets anger roll over him-- it’s easy to be mad, it’s right there under the surface.

He pushes away from the wall and stalks over to Steve, grabbing his arm and swinging him back around so they’re squared off against one another. “You done? You want to know what _ actually _ happened, or are you still busy jumping to conclusions.”

Steve scowls at him. “That bruise is a pretty solid conclusion, Buck.”

“Yeah, that was a helluva bruise I left.” Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to, and I apologized as soon as I realized. That kid was so fucking _ delighted _ I had my mouth on him, he was fucking _ thrilled _ to show it off to his friends.”

“So that makes it okay?”

Bucky shrugs. “Some people like it rough. That kid seems like he’s one of them. You going to judge everyone by some metric you got in your head? Gonna tell the rest of us what we should be living up to?” He pauses, watching Steve’s hands curl into fists, his face darkening in rage. He can smell the sulfur-scent rising up between them and asks the question he knows will push them over the edge. “Is it outrage, Steve? Or are you just jealous?”

Steve goes pale, and then red, and Bucky’s _ right. _

“You wish you’d been where that kid was? Wish I’d been on my knees for you?” Steve makes a sound deep in his chest that would’ve been a growl if he was a wolf. “That why you decided to come back up here this weekend, Steve? Hoped you’d get another _ fucking go?” _

Steve takes a step forward, thrusting out with his arms so his hands connect with Bucky’s chest, throwing him up against the brick wall again. Bucky grunts as he hits _ hard. _ He wants to curl up as he gasps for air, but long-ago training kicks in and he straightens, muscles loose and ready. He leans insolently back against the wall, smirking at Steve. “Who’s leaving bruises now?”

Steve glares. “You’ll heal a lot faster than that kid.” His glare morphs into something more predatory as he leans in closer, takes a deep breath. Another wolf’d be scenting Bucky now, but for all Steve’s superhuman, his nose isn’t. “He get you off?” Steve asks, voice harsh. His hands grip Bucky’s shoulders as he steps closer. “Return the favor?”

Bucky draws breath to answer and can’t help but smell Steve-- anger, copper tang of blood close under the surface of his skin, and the musk of arousal. Bucky shifts his stance, opens his legs wider to brace himself. “No.”

“Why not?” Steve’s voice is harsh, but his hands are a distraction, kneading Bucky’s shoulders. He licks his lips and Bucky has to bite back a groan. “You needed something to take the edge off, right?” When did Steve’s voice get so _ deep? _ “Why not let that skinny kid help? Didn’t he offer?”

Steve’s close enough that Bucky can feel the heat of him, though the only place they’re touching are his hands still tight on Bucky’s shoulders. “He did.” Bucky shrugs, and Steve’s fingers dig in. “I wasn’t interested.”

“Hmmm. Why not, Buck?” Steve takes that final step, brings their bodies flush, and Bucky can feel exactly how interested Steve is in his answer. Steve drags his hands down from Bucky’s shoulders to his chest, rubs them over the thin cotton of his t-shirt, lets his thumb come to rest beside a nipple. Bucky takes a sharp breath in, can’t help but tilt his head back to expose his neck when Steve leans in to lick a stripe from collarbone to jaw. Steve murmurs in his ear, “Why didn’t you want to play with that kid?”

Bucky closes his eyes, lets himself feel the humid air of Steve exhaling against his neck, their chests brushing against one another as they breathe in tandem. And then Bucky moves, sudden and wolf-fast, hand fisting in Steve’s short hair. Steve doesn’t expect it, lets out a shocked little moan as Bucky tugs at his hair, then drags his fingers down over Steve’s skull to grip the nape of his neck. He can feel the predatory smile stretching his lips as he digs his thumb and index fingers into the pressure points, making Steve groan. “I wanted someone a little less--” he drags Steve back, off-balance, then twists, kicking up with just the right amount of pressure that Steve drops like a stone onto his knees. “--breakable.”

Steve’s mouth is open, shocked, and it takes a moment for him to close it. He swallows, then licks his lips. “Asshole.”

Bucky grins down at him. “You like it, though.”

Steve stares up at him silently, and Bucky tenses. Just off the top of his head, there’s half a dozen ways Steve can take him down. They’re frozen, tableau, and then Steve slowly, deliberately leans in, hands rucking up Bucky’s shirt, warm against his skin. He rests his face against Bucky’s belly, making him tense more, all too aware of teeth so close to tender flesh. The wolf is suddenly alert in his head, both of them waiting. When Steve nips, he jumps. Then Steve catches a patch of flesh with his teeth, sucks it into his mouth, laves it with his tongue. Bucky shivers, leaning back into the wall, unable to bite back a moan.

Steve keeps mouthing over the hollow of his belly, sucking bruises. His hands grip Bucky’s hips and Bucky arches for him, hand petting over Steve’s hair, left arm braced against the wall for what balance it gives him. Steve works his way down to where Bucky’s jeans strain over the bulge of his cock, rubs his cheek against it before he looks up. “This what you want, Buck?” His right hand grips Bucky’s cock through his jeans. “Want me to help you out?”

There’s a burst of sound from the street, group of people walking by, and Bucky’s reminded that they’re in an alley, that the cops patrol around here on slow nights, that courting an indecent exposure citation doesn’t help either of them. Steve’s mouth on his cock is about _ all _ Bucky wants right now, but he forces himself to be responsible. “Steve, we’re in a fucking alley, anyone could come by.” He slides his hand back up to fist in Steve’s short hair again, tugs. “Up.”

Steve stares at him, and Bucky wonders if he’s going to stay down there just to be contrary. But he rolls to his feet, the smooth motion another kind of turn-on because Bucky knows just what kind of control is behind it. When he’s on his feet, he steps close again, one of his thick thighs slotting between Bucky’s. It would be easy, so easy for Bucky to lean forward, to press against him. Steve’s hands are against the brick, bracketing his head, and he throws out like a challenge, “You didn’t used to give a shit where you marked me up, Bucky.”

Bucky stares at him. “Jesus, Steve.” Then crashes his mouth into Steve’s. Steve fights back like he always does-- they kiss like they’re brawling, and Bucky tastes blood, not sure if it’s Steve’s or his own. Steve works his hand up, twisting it in Bucky’s hair and dragging his head back to bite at Bucky’s neck. He shoves Bucky back into the God damn wall again, though this time his hand keeps Bucky’s head from slamming against the brick. Then his mouth is back, another biting kiss as he presses against Bucky from shoulders to thighs. Bucky lets his hand slide down Steve’s side to grip his ass, grinds up on the thick thigh between his own. He draws back for a breath-- this is a stunningly bad idea-- but Steve drags his head back in for another voracious kiss.

Bucky tries to set a rhythm, but it’s no use, they crash into each other gracelessly, more a fight than anything else. It’s fast and violent, Steve setting a rough, bruising pace. 

It’s not that far different than the first time they did this, back in March when Bucky made damn sure that neither of them had time to think, wanting to forget everything he left in Montana. In this alley they sure as hell don’t have time to go slow, but as he bucks up against Steve, close to coming, Steve groaning against him, Bucky promises himself that next time he’ll make sure they have time, that he can lay Steve out and reacquaint himself, leave as many bruises as he likes. Since that’s why they do this anyway.

***

They manage to get back to his truck without getting arrested. Steve slouches in the passenger seat looking inordinately pleased with himself. Bucky tries not to squirm, come cooling against his skin, just turns on the radio. At home, he opens the door to the house and waves Steve in ahead of him. When they’re both a few steps into the dining room, Bucky shoves Steve, hard enough that he goes down on the floor, nearly knocking his head on the wooden buffet standing against the wall. He turns over, growling. “What the _ fuck, _ Bucky?”

Bucky’s down on his knees beside him already, though, crushing the button on Steve’s jeans and nearly ripping the zipper. He shoves Steve’s jeans and underwear down, releasing the rich smell of come and sweat drying on Steve’s belly and thighs. Steve’s cursing him, but then he’s got Steve’s cock in his hand, half-hard, and Bucky dives down, gets his mouth around it, taste exploding on his tongue and that’s--

That’s what he’s wanted all night.

He starts out just holding it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head, then swallowing around it. Steve groans out, “Bucky,” as he grows from half-hard to fully there. He reaches down to grab Bucky’s hair again, fingers tangling and tugging. His voice starts in a mumble, but he gets louder quickly, muttering curses, praise. “There, right there, God, your mouth, Buck, missed your fucking mouth--”

Bucky takes his time, pulls out all his tricks, licking and sucking over the head before slowly taking Steve deeper in his throat. He listens for the places where Steve moans, where he’s shocked silent, works them over again and again. Wonders if he learned how to make Steve groan like this the first time he was giving him bruises--

Steve bucks up suddenly, and Bucky grunts, but he’d caught the edge of movement, pulling back before Steve can choke him. Steve mutters, “Sorry, sorry,” even while tugging on Bucky’s hair, trying to get him back on his cock.

Bucky stays where he is, waits for Steve to open his eyes, then fixes him with his best sergeant look and orders, “You fucking do that again and I’ll hold you down, fucking super-soldier be damned.”

Steve laughs, full-out guffaws, gasps, “Never stopped me before, Buck,” and his smirk is a wicked challenge as Bucky dives back down.

In the end, he braces his right arm over Steve’s belly, leans his weight against it because apparently Steve not only can’t shut up, he can’t stay fucking still and Bucky’s not interested in being choked on his cock. It’s more a struggle than he’s used to, and it’s fun-- fighting as much as fucking, winding them both up more, until Steve comes down his throat with a shout. After, Bucky slides up, snug against him, tugging down his own jeans until Steve gets enough breath and coordination back to tease, “You need help with that?”

He grabs Bucky around the ribs with both hands, drags him over so Bucky’s straddling his hips, and God, Bucky didn’t realize how much he wants to be manhandled, which is pretty fucking stupid of him considering how they started the evening.

Steve slides both hands down his ass, under jeans and underwear, pushing them down and then urging Bucky to start thrusting against him, one hand squeezing his ass, the other dipping between his cheeks, dry finger just pressing at his hole. And that is really fucking working, so Bucky braces his right hand on the floor next to Steve’s left shoulder, stump resting on his right, and thrusts, working his hips. Steve’s muttering, “Yeah, that’s it, let me see what you’ve got, give it to me.” Bucky wants to tease him about his ridiculous dirty talk, wants to know if this is what it used to be like, but suddenly he’s so close, and then Steve’s finger breaches him just the tiniest bit, and he’s clenching and coming on a shout.

He manages to resist the urge to just flop down on Steve, instead ends up next to him, Steve’s right arm still around his hips, pulling him close. Until finally he has the breath and energy to say, “Up, Rogers, there’s a bed down the hall, and a shower, and we’re gross.”

Steve tightens his grip. “Floor’s just fine, Buck. Besides, I’ve slept in worse places.”

Bucky laughs as he manages to push away Steve’s hand, lever himself up. “You comparing my floor to the Front, Steve? That’s damning with faint praise.” He holds out his hand for Steve to take. “Come on.”

Steve lays there another minute, gazing up at him. Bucky’s aware of his jeans half on and come smearing down his belly and thighs, hair probably wild, shirt maybe ripped. Steve’s smile is wide and his eyes are bright and Bucky thinks maybe he did something right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold hard reality, like a punch to the face.

Boston, September 7, 2013

Bucky’s watching a match between Jummah and Maelle, wondering what the hell he was thinking, scheduling an extra training session for the kids this weekend. He knows, of course he does-- he thought it would be awkward when Steve came back to visit, figured spending time with the kids would give them both an out. Plus, the kids have missed Steve, were thrilled to see him when he came up a few weekends ago, had begged to know when he was visiting again. And, honestly, Steve enjoys spending time with them.

Still, he thinks, glancing over to where Steve and Nita are practicing on the mats, getting caught up in watching Steve readjust Nita’s position, the play of light on Steve’s forearms, the way his shirt is practically painted on-- Maybe he should have cancelled practice when it became clear last night that Steve was determined to push past any awkwardness in favor of jumping him the minute he opened the door. That had been-- Bucky closes his eyes briefly to savor the memory-- an  _ excellent _ way to kick off a weekend. 

Bucky forces himself to open his eyes, concentrate on the kids. Smells the familiar scents of sweat and disinfectant. He watches Jummah throw a punch that Maelle should be able to dodge easily, frowns when she barely jumps back. As he pays more attention, Bucky starts noticing that Jummah and Maelle are fighting adequately, but nowhere near as well as they can. Both of them are slower than usual, and Bucky can sense the hesitation as they trade blows. Andrew had been even less engaged when he arrived, and Bucky had sent him over to work one of the bags, not wanting to push him into getting hurt. Bucky glances over to find Andrew punching the bag lackadaisically, no really energy in his movements. Now that he’s tuning into it, the whole atmosphere is kind of down, and Bucky wonders what’s going on.

Suddenly, he hears the  _ crunch _ of a fist on flesh, followed by “Shit!” He’s already turning, reacting as much to the sound of bone and cartilage as Nita’s voice, high-pitched and scared, as she calls, “Prof!”

They’re less than a dozen steps away and he’s already asking, “What happened?” as he goes. It’s obvious, though, from the way Steve’s got his hands on his face, the way blood drips down onto his shirt, the mats. 

“Ib’b okay,” Steve tries to say, Bucky pulling his hand away from his face to check on the break. “I’b be fibe.”

Bucky runs his fingers over Steve’s cheeks, along the side of Steve’s nose, but the break isn’t too bad. “You’re a dumbass.” Bucky shakes his head, then calls over, “Andrew, can you grab some towels?”   


It takes a few minutes for Andrew to get the towels, to convince Steve to let him set the break, to staunch the bleeding. So Bucky doesn’t register immediately that Nita is crying until she takes a breath that ends up a sob.

“Nita?” He turns to face her, his left arm on Steve’s shoulder, holding out his right hand to her. “Kiddo, it’s okay. Steve heals like a wolf, he’ll--”

She stares at his outstretched right and gasps out, “I’m sorry, I’m so  _ sorry, _ I didn’t mean it, please--” She wraps her arms around her stomach, and her skin’s gone grey. Bucky can smell her fear and distress, and he wonders what’s going on-- they’re werewolves, this is hardly the first bloody injury that’s come up in training. And then she continues, “Please, I can do better, please don’t tell, please--”

Maelle’s suddenly next to her and Bucky startles-- he hadn’t been tracking her. Nita startles too, but Maelle doesn’t let that stop her. She reaches out and wraps Nita in a hug, pulling Nita’s face down to her shoulder and running her fingers through her hair. It looks a bit funny, Maelle’s a good four inches shorter than Nita, but Nita curls into her, making herself small enough to take comfort in her arms.

Bucky stares for a moment, until Maelle looks up at him, face desperate even as she’s murmuring something soothing in Creole. Bucky starts herding the two of them, and Andrew and Jummah who are huddled protectively nearby, over to the couple of chairs in the back corner of the gym. He waves an arm at Steve, who trails after them, still holding the bloody towel to his face.

“Okay,” he says, once he’s got them settled, and kneels down next to the arm chair where Nita and Maelle are huddled together. “Nita, honey, can you look at me?”

She does, eyes widening when she catches sight of Steve over his shoulder. “Sorry, I’m sorry--” she starts again, a hitch in her voice. Bucky hears her breath go shallow as she pants, trying to get enough air.  _ Shit. _

“Nita,” he keeps his voice as calm as possible, “You’re having a panic attack, honey. I want you to breathe with me, all right? I’m going to count and you’re going to take a breath with me, can you do that?” He catches her eyes, and she nods. “All right, breathe in for a count of four.”

It takes a while before she manages to get her breathing back on track, Bucky listening carefully for her heartbeat to come back down to a normal level. By the time she’s calm enough that he can concentrate on the others, he realizes everyone, even Steve, who’d disappeared briefly into the locker room to clean up, is breathing in time with him.

Now that she’s calmer, he reaches up from where he’s kneeling to grip her arm. “All right, kiddo. You’re okay. Steve’s okay. Right?”

Steve squats down beside him, and he can feel the heat radiating from him, can smell skin and sweat and soap, the fainter smell of blood. “I’m fine, Nita.” Bucky looks over, and Steve’s got two black eyes, but he’s smiling. “Accidents happen and I’ll be healed by tomorrow.”

Bucky looks back up at Nita, who’s biting her lip as she stares at Steve. “I’m so sorry, Steve,” she says again, though this time she sounds more like herself. “I didn’t realize you weren’t in position.”

“Serves me right.” Steve winks at her. “I should have moved faster.” She smiles weakly at that.

Bucky gives her arm a little shake. “It’s a little early, but do you want to call your grandfather to pick you up?” He’s shocked to see her go pale again, and Maelle gives a little yelp. 

“Sorry!” Nita shrinks in on herself again, letting go of Maelle’s hand, and Bucky can hear her heartbeat pick up gain. 

“Nita?” He makes his voice careful, and she looks down at him, eyes filling with tears. “Is something going on with your grandfather?”

She bites her lip again, blinking, until tears spill over. Still, it takes almost another minute before she nods slowly.

“Okay, you wanna talk about it here? Or in my office?”

Maelle glares at him, and behind him he can hear Jummah start to growl. Nita sniffs, rubbing her left hand under her eyes, scrubbing away tears. “Here’s okay.” Bucky watches her for a couple more breaths, until she says, “I’ll just tell them anyway and it’s better if everyone knows.” Then she looks over his shoulder and adds quietly, “You, too, Steve.”

Steve makes a little noise of assent, shifting so he’s sitting on the floor, tailor-style, next to Bucky.

“ _ Mi abuelo, _ he’s so worried about this bill, that we’ll be endangered species and have to register with the government. He remembers--” She takes a breath. “He left  _ Guatemala _ because of the way the government treated  _ l os indios. Mi abuela, mi tio--” _ She swallows convulsively, and Maelle hugs her closer. “He doesn’t want anyone to know about me. In case,” her voice trembles, “in case they try to take me away.”

“Nita.” Bucky waits until she looks at him, makes his voice as certain as possible. “I’m not going to let that happen. Isaac, Bill, Alison, Noah-- the whole Pack. We’re not going to let that happen to you.” He catches Maelle’s eye, then turns to look at Jummah and Andrew. “To any of you.” They nod, can probably smell the truth of his words, but he can tell they’re still uncertain. In his head, the wolf is seething at a threat it can’t answer with teeth and claws.

Nita bites her lip.  _ “Abuelo _ wants to make sure I have perfect control. And I-- I’m pretty good.” She looks at him for confirmation and Bucky nods. Nita’s control  _ is _ good for a young werewolf. “But he worries it’s not enough. He’s been--” Her voice gets quieter until it’s hardly a whisper. “He’s been talking to  _ el brujo.” _

Bucky goes hunting-still. Witches are nothing to mess around with. Next to him, Steve mutters, “Shit.”

Nita shrinks a little bit more into Maelle’s side. _“El_ _brujo,_ he says he can do a spell that keeps people from knowing I’m a wolf, even if I mess up.” She closes her eyes at Bucky’s growl. “But he wants money. Like, could-send-me-to-college-for-a-semester kind of money.”

Bucky has to make a conscious effort to stop growling. The witch is a threat they can deal with. The bigger fears, worries the government will take them away, lock them up-- Bucky’s sure as hell sympathetic with Nita’s grandfather.

“If  _ abuelo _ finds out I hurt Steve, he’s going to go ahead and find the money. And I don’t-- I don’t want  _ el brujo _ to do something to me, and I don’t want  _ abuelo _ to throw away money and--” her breath catches on a sob again.

“My dad thinks they’ll try and register us, too.” Bucky turns to look at Jummah, who’s slouched down next to Andrews, trying to make his 6-foot frame as small as possible. “My uncle lives in Canada and Dad wants to send me there. He says if I go now, then I could be out of the country when it happens, maybe seek asylum.” He looks grim. “My sister was finally sleeping through the night and now she cries whenever I go to work.”

“If we have to register--” Maelle hides her face in Nita’s shoulder, her voice muffled. “My mom still doesn’t know. She says werewolves need to be rounded up to protect innocent people.”

Bucky opens his mouth, not sure what he’s going to say, and Andrew sits up straight. He’s rubbing circles on Jummah’s back with his right hand, and now he reaches his left out toward Steve. “When you go back to DC, can you tell them this?” He gestures to Jummah, waves at Nita and Maelle. “Tell them we’re real people, okay? We’re not just some boogeyman they made up. We’re real people with families, and we just want to live our lives.”

Bucky tenses, fist clenching. As Steve takes them all in-- Jummah, who looks like he’s trying to crawl into Andrew’s lap, Nita crying against Maelle’s shoulder, and Maelle, trembling and close to tears herself-- he wants to sweep them all up, keep them safe from everything-- even Steve.

When Steve answers, he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Yeah, Andrew,” Steve says quietly. “I’ll let them know it’s a fucking stupid idea and that you’re people, same as everyone else.”

***

It’s Maelle who breaks the tension, sliding from the chair down onto the floor. She drags Nita with her, and they tackle Bucky with hugs. Jummah and Andrew pile on, knocking Bucky into Steve, Maelle crawling over to hug him too. Andrew follows her, manages to somehow give Steve a noogie, and then Bucky loses track because Jummah is tickling Nita, who’s shrieking as she fends him off. They grin at one another, then tackle him, and he looks over to find Steve in a similar situation, Andrew giggling and jerking while Maelle pokes at him. Steve’s laughing, and it makes Bucky grin, before he has to turn back to fend off Nita and Jummah’s concerted assault.

Eventually, they all collapse in a giant pile on the floor, everyone hugging and snuggling. He and Steve end up back to back, kids surrounding them. The scents of blood and sadness have dissipated, everyone seems quieter, more centered. That’s how the parents find them when the arrive for pickup. Maelle’s stepfather looks surprised and thoughtful, but Jummah’s dad just rolls his eyes at them-- he’s come to pick up Jummah after full moon nights, he knows how pack can get. 

***

Back at home, Bucky can feel the rage and frustration he put aside when dealing with the kids seething under his skin. He does his best to ignore it, but that’s not easy when the wolf is driving him with twin urges to protect and to fight. 

“I didn’t realize how much this ESA stuff is affecting everyone.” Steve leans against the wall in the kitchen as Bucky raids the fridge for leftover pizza and meatballs. “I mean, it’s still just sitting in committee and it’s fallen off the front pages in DC. Might not go anywhere.”

Bucky counts to twenty in his head as puts the pizza on the counter. Keeps counting higher as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a bowl to reheat the meatballs. It helps him keep his voice steady when he finally turns to look at Steve. “It’s fallen off the front pages here, too. Doesn’t mean we can forget about it.”

“No, no, of course not.” Steve grabs the pizza and carries it out to the dining room while he puts the meatballs in the microwave. “I just figured— They’re kids. They shouldn’t have to be thinking about this, you know?”

“Are you kidding?” Abruptly, Bucky stalks into the dining room. “Steve, one of the State Reps here is talking about applying the Malicious Killing law-- a law about killing fucking cows and dogs-- to werewolves.”

Steve frowns up at him from where he’s sitting at the table, pizza in his hand. “What?”

Bucky growls, furious. “Because we’re not people, right?” He thumps his fist against the wall. “Can’t apply murder charges if you kill an  _ animal.” _

All the rage he felt, the wolf felt, watching his kids talk about how terrified they are comes back full force. He wants to fight something,  _ hunt _ something. “You think because they’re kids they don’t know about this stuff? They can’t afford  _ not _ to know. You heard Nita-- she’s so scared she’s going to out herself that she practically had a breakdown over a training injury.”

“Bucky.” Steve drops the pizza and holds up his hands. “I get it, okay? I’m sorry people are being assholes. I hate that the kids are scared.”

“Of course they’re scared. Jesus,  _ I’m _ fucking worried.” Bucky hears the microwave beep, ignores it. “Fucking Hydra’s running around trying to take over the world and I have to be worried that these fucking idiots want to round my pack up and stick us in a concentration camp or something.”

Steve’s chin juts out. “They’re not going to do it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky laughs, angry and bitter. “The Fae are on reservations right now. Hell, don’t you remember where Morita’s family was?”

Steve pales, and for the first time, Bucky can smell something like fear coming off him. Bucky turns, keeping Steve in his line of sight as he paces the short length of the dining room, clenching his fist, breathing deep. The wolf wants to go hunting, looking for these people who would hurt his pack, and he can’t right now. That’s never going to end well. 

There’s a scrape of a chair, loud in the silence, and he turns abruptly, then stills. Steve has his hands up in front of him, and he keeps them up as he slowly stands. Bucky tracks his movements, knows his eyes have gone gold. “Bucky. Buck.”

“What?” Shit, his voice has gone raspy, he’s got to get a grip on himself.

“We’re not going to let it happen.” Steve takes a step closer. Bucky watches him, caught between stepping back and attacking. “You and me. Charles, Bran, Fury, all the rest of us. We’re not going to let it happen. We’ll fight this and we’ll win.” He takes another step closer, and Bucky can’t stop himself from tensing, balancing on the balls of his feet, arm coming up defensively. Steve stops, voice grave. “I promised the kids.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s still wary, half ready to pull away.

Steve nods seriously. “Yeah, Buck. I know that I-- we-- didn’t stop Hydra like we thought. But I’ll be damned if I let anyone throw you, those kids, any of the wolves where you don’t want to be.”

Steve holds Bucky’s gaze and underneath his anger, his impotent frustration, he marvels again that it’s never a challenge when Steve does this. Bucky takes a deep breath, focuses on the scent of Steve’s sweat, the spice of his skin, the tomato and oregano of the pizza. He forces himself to step back from the edge, wolf snarling, unwillingly calming. Steve watches him, and he must see something, Bucky’s not sure what, but he takes a step forward, another. Reaches out, slow enough that Bucky can step back, evade. Bucky lets himself be drawn into the hug Steve offers, lets himself relax that much more in Steve’s arms.

* * *

Boston, MA and Philadelphia, PA, October 16, 2013

Bucky’s sprawled on his couch watching the end credits of a truly abysmal movie. He’s laughing, as he has been since about the 30 minute mark, at Steve’s ongoing irritated monologue about the movie, its values, the way the female star is treated and, of all things, the score. It’s pure comedy gold-- he bets he could get Andrew or Nita to set up some kind of YouTube for Steve to rip apart modern cinema. They’d make a killing.

Steve winds down, until the irritation fades from his voice. “Thanks for watching this with me, Buck. And I’m sorry I put you through it.”

“No problem, pal.” Bucky puts the phone on speaker, drops it on the couch so he can stretch. “Next time let me pick-- your friends have a twisted idea of ‘great modern cinema.’ Pretty sure I can find something better than this.”

“A drunk squirrel could find a better movie than this. Hell, a drunk squirrel could probably write a better move than this.”

Bucky laughs, scooping up the phone and bringing it back to his ear. “Hey, listen. Before you go, you gonna come up next weekend?”

Steve’s quiet for a moment, so Bucky listens to the sound of his breath, pictures him stretched out on his couch wearing track pants, one of those tight t-shirts. The moment stretches out, and Bucky starts wondering what’s going on, when Steve sighs. “I’m going up to Philly next weekend.” 

“Philly, huh?” Bucky considers idly-- Philly’s not that far from Boston.

“Uh, yeah.” Steve takes a deep breath, and Bucky’s on alert. “I, uh. Got plans.” Another breath. “To see Peg.”

“Peg. Peggy Carter?” Immediately, red lips come to mind. And then he remembers black-and-white photos on cheap textbook paper, a young, dark-haired woman staring straight into the camera, her eyes challenging. 

“Yeah.” Steve sounds sad. Wistful. “I’ve been visiting her for a while now.”

“Oh.” Bucky feels blindsided, and he doesn’t know why. The woman is the love of Steve’s life, she must be in her nineties. Of course Steve would visit her. Of course Steve would--

Steve clears his throat. “I’ve got to be up early, pal. But let me see how this week and next shape up, I’ll see if I can visit at the end of the month.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. G’night.”

***

Bucky googles her. He never has before, and somehow that seems surprising now, but honestly, between Gabe and Tony he heard enough about the woman, and without many memories, and none good, he hadn’t gone digging. Mostly, he aimed to stay out of her way while she was head of SHIELD. God, he can’t even remember when she retired.

Google tells him a lot, tells him all about how she broke ground and blazed trails and served in the US Government’s intelligence apparatus without actually mentioning SHIELD (though her wikipedia page is locked, so he bets someone figured it out and no one is officially confirming or denying). She’s 92 now, and there’s nothing he can find telling him where she is. He supposes that’s for her safety-- Peggy Carter must have enemies, and she knew a lot in her day, so she’s still at risk. He bets whatever facility she’s in is run by national security, someone ready with her warm milk, her medicines-- and a pillow in case she starts talking to the wrong visitor.

He ends up calling Tony, because Tony still calls the woman aunt and Bucky’d be shocked if he didn’t know where she is. 

“Aunt Peg?” There’s the sound of something landing on a metal table, then, “Why do you need to know where she is?” Tony sounds… protective. Not like he won’t tell Bucky; more like this is just unusual enough that he’s not going right along with it. 

Bucky leans against his desk, shakes his head. “Steve’s visiting her this weekend. I got curious.”

“Curious, huh?” There’s sounds of movement, the usual sounds of Tony on the phone-- he’s never still. “You never talk about her. Or her and him.”

“Not much to say.” Bucky wanders around his office, touching different piles of paper, before he leans against the wall and looks out at the mid-afternoon crowd. “I didn’t work with her a whole lot. She and Steve were a whole lot closer.”

“Closer, yeah.” Tony taps his hand against something. “She was in love with him for a long time. She always talked about him just a little bit different than anyone else.”

Bucky nods. It lines up with his patchy memories. “Steve was gonna ask her to marry him, I’m pretty sure. Love of his life.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, and then Tony asks again, “Why do you want to know, old man?” A challenge slips into his voice. “She’s old, she’s dying, she has dementia. The time for you to visit her is long past.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m not planning on seeing her or on letting her see me. But Steve sounded-- rough, when he talked about her.” He pauses, drags his hand through his hair. “I thought I could meet him up after, buy him lunch. Let him talk about it.”

It takes a minute for Tony to answer. “I-- see.” Bucky wonders what the kid thinks he sees. “All right, well if you’re going to be a masochist, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’ll text you the address. Better not bother her though-- Aunt Peggy always had a mean right hook.”

“Thanks, kid. She won’t even know that I’m there.”

***

Bucky parks a couple of streets away from the address Tony gave him. This part of town has money-- he’s glad he dressed a little nicer than usual, in a collared shirt and v-neck sweater over it, trousers instead of jeans. He’s even wearing the fucking prosthetic that he hates. He takes a meandering path through the neighborhood, watching faces, catching sight of a couple of agents he recognizes from SHIELD’s files. He wonders if they’re part of the regular detail on the house or if they followed Steve up.

The house, when he strolls past it, looks like most of the others on this block, three-story brick with a neat yard, flower beds mulched and bushes trimmed. There’s a decorative iron fence surrounding it, and big slate tiles for the walkway. It looks like nothing like a nursing home, and if you weren’t looking for it, you could easily miss the discreet plaque by the door. 

There’s a park a block beyond the house, and Bucky ends up there, sitting on a bench with his phone out, looking up next year’s Red Sox schedule. He scents Steve before he sees him, and when he chances a look up, Steve’s walking toward the park, no agents in sight. Bucky stands up, pockets his phone, and makes a wide circle around Steve, on the lookout for SHIELD. Steve enters the park and barely looks up from the ground, just follows one of the paths, seemingly at random.

Bucky shakes his head-- that kind of inattention can get you killed, though he has to admit that there don’t seem to be agents following. Eventually, he heads over to the hotdog vendor, gets a couple of dogs. He makes another circuit, then catches up to Steve, sitting down next to him on the bench where he’s staring moodily down at a pond. “Hey, Steve.”

Steve starts, head and hands coming up defensively, too late to do anything. Bucky just shakes his head. “Here.” He holds the hotdog out. “You look bad enough I’m not even going to lecture you about paying attention. Take the dog, you need to eat something.”

Steve’s lips twist into a smile, and he takes the hotdog, looking down on it. “You got onions on it, you jerk.” He shoves it in his mouth anyway.

Bucky rolls his eyes, takes a bite of his own dog. “Was I supposed to remember you don’t like onions, princess?”

“You guys never used to let me or Dum Dum have onions-- said it was worse than any chemical warfare the Krauts cooked up.” He grins. “Bet you’ll remember after this afternoon.”

Bucky laughs, watching him shove the other half of the hotdog into his mouth. “There was barely a teaspoon of onions on that thing.”

“Doesn’t take much,” Steve says, sounding ridiculously smug.

***

They end up wandering for a bit through the park, both on the alert for anyone following them. Steve’s mood fades to melancholy as they go, and eventually Bucky asks quietly, “How is she?”

Steve sighs. “She seemed like herself. Smart as a whip, making fun of me for being dramatic.” Bucky smiles. “Then she coughed and it was just-- gone. She didn’t remember anything we were talking about, didn’t even remember I’d come back. It was like-- like I’d walked in the door for the first time all over again. She was crying. Shaking.” Steve reaches up, covers his face with his right hand, then drags it down his face. Bucky looks away, but he can smell the salt.

They pace a little further, up and down a hill, before Steve continues. “I want to yell at her, you know? She brought Zola here, and I just want to shake her, demand to know what the  _ hell _ she was thinking. Why in the God damn hell she would let him into what we built.” Bucky turns to watch him, and Steve looks up, catching his eye. “And then I remember that it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s so old, and he’s dead. Hydra’s here. It doesn’t matter who let them in any more.”

Steve’s not bothering to hide the tears now, and Bucky reaches for him with his right hand, pulling him off the path and hugging him. His prosthetic hangs, deadweight, at his left side as he rubs his right hand up and down his back. Steve buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder, tears soaking through the wool of his sweater. Bucky can’t think of anything to say.

When Steve finally pulls back, he fishes in his pocket for a handkerchief, uses it to scrub away the tears and blow his nose. Bucky takes another look around, but no one’s come, and the wolf tells him they are safe, for now. Steve smiles at him, eyes wistful. “I appreciate you coming, Buck. You driving back today?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods. “I have to open tomorrow. But I got some time, still.”

Steve peeks at him from under his lashes. “Yeah?”

Bucky steps closer, bumps Steve with his left shoulder. “Yeah. And I’m hungry, Rogers. It’s your turn to buy.”

Steve smiles then, wide and bright. He starts walking again, steering them back toward the park entrance, both of them on alert for SHIELD. “I hear the cheesesteaks are pretty good here.”

***

It’s mid-afternoon, and the place they find is quiet, just them and a couple of staff hanging out in the back, cleaning things up. They sit so that between them all lines of sight are covered, though as far as Bucky can tell, and Steve agrees, they haven’t been followed. 

Steve puts down his sandwich and grabs his soda, waving it at Bucky’s left arm. “That new?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No.” He glances down at his prosthetic, feels his lip curling. “I just hate wearing it.”

“Uh, okay.” Steve looks down at the table, picks up his sandwich again. Bucky narrows his eyes, but doesn’t pursue it. 

They’re quiet, Bucky savoring his sandwich while Steve finishes his off, starts cleaning off his hands with the cheap paper napkins. He looks to be working himself up to say something, and Bucky watches him carefully, but lets him be.

“How do you…” Steve pauses, looking down at the table, then he looks up, squaring his shoulders. Bucky can feel himself mirroring Steve’s posture, then grimaces when the fucking prosthetic swings lightly against him, catching him off guard again. “You seem pretty comfortable just… not remembering some stuff.”

That’s-- not what Bucky was expecting. He studies Steve’s face as he puts down his sandwich, starts to pull out his own napkins. 

A blush floods Steve’s fair skin. “I just mean-- With Peggy, it’s like it’s there, then,” he snaps his fingers, “it’s not. Sometimes I come and she thinks it must be ‘46 or ‘47, tells me the Russians are the real threat now. Sometimes she’s totally fine, except when she shows me the photos of her grandkids she uses the wrong names. Sometimes--” He stops himself. “You said that some things, like from the war, are just missing. And I just-- how do you live with it?”

Bucky thinks about sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, listening to the rain beat against the window, exhausted from trying to bludgeon his stupid brain into giving up just one more piece of information. He can smell Ayumi sitting next to him, hear her humming that Beach Boys song she loved. 

“When I started--” He pauses, taking a drink of his Coke to clear his throat. “Started remembering.” Steve nods, watching him carefully. “Nothing stuck. It was like each time I remembered something new, something else disappeared. Like my head wasn’t big enough to hold everything.” He stops himself from shrugging again. “Like I was only allowed so many memories.”

Steve’s watching him so intently that he closes his eyes for a moment, gathers himself. Tries to think about what he wants to say, what he wants Steve to hear. “I got so angry at myself. How could I be a grown man and be able to remember less than a 10-year-old girl.” When he opens his eyes, Steve’s looking at him with such compassion that Bucky looks down at the table. He draws in the condensation, forces himself not to shiver at the feel of his prosthetic.

“What did you do?” Steve asks hesitantly.

“Ayumi got me a clipboard and some paper and I started writing. I wrote down everything I remembered, and I’d read it over when I forgot. Some days that’s all I’d do, write everything down and when I got to the end of the memories, go back and start over at the beginning again.”

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve’s voice is rough and Bucky looks up then. Steve’s eyes are wet again.

“It took me a long fucking time to get back what I’ve got. Sometimes I wish I had more.” He shrugs. “Hell, sometimes I even get more, I trip over something, someone, and it-- downloads into my head. This fucking-- Everything I, we,” he waves a hand between them, “been doing, it sometimes triggers memories, and that’s not exactly fun. But they’re mine. And I want as many as I can get.” 

Steve’s face is drawn and pale, and he glances around, then reaches his left hand across the table, catches Bucky’s right. “Pal.” 

Bucky shrugs, squeezes Steve’s hand, then lets go to drag his hand through his hair. “It makes me crazy, Steve, banging at brick walls in my head.” He shakes his head, thinking about red lips and an unimpressed expression. “And I bet she feels the same way, grabbing for memories and feeling them slip away. I’m sorry it’s happening to her. I’m sorry you have to watch it happen.”

Steve closes his eyes, and Bucky wonders what he’s seeing. “Me too, pal. Me too.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She called you 'soldier' like it was your name.

Boston, MA, December 5, 2013

There’s a light on in his dining room.

There’s a light on in his dining room, Bucky can see it shining clearly through the window, and Bucky’s certain he turned it off before he left this morning. It’s after 11 pm, and the light stands out since most of his neighbors have shut their curtains and blinds by now. His porch light is off, but the bulb burnt out a week ago. He doesn’t need it to see his keys, so he keeps forgetting to replace it. The dining room light is on and there’s no reason for it to be.

This all flashes through his mind in an instant as he slows the truck. He only has a few seconds to decide what to do-- he just turned onto his street and his house is the second in from the corner he just turned. He ends up driving past his house, slowly, looking for evidence of someone inside. He just left Alison, the kids, and the rest of the pack at Isaac’s house. It’s been months since he brought anyone but Steve home.

He takes a right, then takes his foot off the gas, rolling slowly, and steadies the steering wheel with his knee and his stump. He leans over to the glove box and pulls out his Starkphone and the pistol he’s taken to carrying. His knife’s in his bag, which is sitting in the footwell of the passenger’s side and not easy to reach. That’s stupid, and later he’ll kick himself for it. Right now, he straightens, dropping the gun on the seat and leaning forward so both of his arms are back on the steering wheel but he can also hold his phone and see the screen. He hits the power button, and the display shows him he’s got two voice messages and five missed texts, all from Steve. The last one reads, “Here.”

He comes to a halt at the stop sign at the end of the block and takes a quick scan at the rest of the messages. They were sent over the last two hours and that’s definitely most likely Steve at home. Motherfucker. He hits the call button.

“Where are you?” he asks when Steve picks up.

Steve’s sleepy and confused when he answers. “Your house, like I texted you I would be. When are you coming home?”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll be there in a minute. Hold your fucking horses.”

He hangs up, then takes a minute to drop his head on the steering wheel and take a couple of calming breaths, knowing it’s useless-- the adrenaline isn’t going to work itself out of his system this fast. He leans back over to put the gun away, then straightens, eases his foot off the brakes and onto the gas, and makes a U-turn. A couple of moments later, he’s pulling into the driveway. While he’s parking the truck, Steve steps out onto the porch, backlit by the lights from the house. He lounges against the pillar at the end of the porch like some kind of fucking model, arms crossed, hair tousled. Bucky squints-- yep, the asshole isn’t even wearing a shirt. 

As he’s hopping out of the truck, Steve calls, “Your porch light’s out.”

Bucky bursts out laughing, though it has an ugly edge to it. “Thanks, asshole. I had no fucking idea.” 

As he walks across the lawn, watching Steve, the lights go on at his neighbor’s place across the street. He throws up his hand at the sudden blaze, though it hardly helps. John always uses fucking 1000-watt bulbs. He hears John call, “Everything okay, Phelan?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, John.” He squints into the light. “Sorry if we disturbed you.”

“No problem!” John’s voice sounds friendly, and the lights go out a moment later. Then, tone much quieter so that a normal human wouldn’t hear him, John curses. “Fucking asshole. I gotta get up early.”

Bucky’s shaking his head as he walks up toward the porch, and he pitches his voice low, knowing Steve will be able to hear. “Waking up honest citizens late at night, Rogers. That’s not exactly Captain America behavior.”

Steve straightens, dropping his arms. He definitely isn’t wearing a shirt and Bucky can feel a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Captain’s standing down tonight, Buck. All you get is Steve Rogers.”

“Well, in that case…” Bucky lets his voice trail off as he climbs the steps, walks into Steve’s space. “Welcome.” Steve’s hands frame his face as he urges Bucky close, tongue licking at Bucky’s lips so he opens, and licking into his mouth aggressively. He lets his right hand slip down Bucky’s side to his waist, pulling him close, and Bucky drops his gym bag so he can wrap his arm around Steve. This is an excellent way to work through the adrenaline still flooding his system.

When Steve makes no move to take things inside, Bucky pushes against him until he starts walking backward toward the door. He breaks away to hustle them into the house-- no need to make out on the porch like teenagers when the bed’s right down the hall. He gives Steve a push, bending down to grab his gym bag, then shuts the door. When he turns back, he gets a better look and Steve? Looks  _ exhausted. _ Like, looks like he’s been dragged both ways through the ringer, deep circles under his eyes, hair a little too long for the modern haircut he’s been sporting. He looks thin, too, the way a wolf starts to look on too-short rations. Bucky steps forward, hand catching Steve’s chin, turning him further into the light. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like hell.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m fine.” Then he yawns so wide that Bucky can hear his jaw crack. He drags his right hand over his face, glancing down. “I might be a little tired.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Steve snorts. “All right, I just got off three back-to-back missions and all I want to do is sleep for a week.” He gives Bucky a heated onceover. “Well, there’s other things I’d like to do.” Then he smiles ruefully. “But I’m not sure I won’t fall asleep in the middle.”

Bucky grins, stepping back into Steve’s space. “The spirit is willing?”

“So’s the flesh.” Steve rubs against him, and he can feel his half-hard cock. “But it might be better if we don’t try anything too…” he blushes, “athletic.”

Bucky laughs, catching Steve’s arm and turning, dragging him down the hallway. “You can give me a handjob, I’ll return the favor. Tomorrow we can go nuts.”

He steps into the bedroom and Steve’s suddenly  _ right _ against his back, arms folding around his chest and waist, holding him close. He murmurs in Bucky’s ear, “Gonna treat me right, Buck?”

Bucky turns his head, meets Steve in a heated kiss. “You play your cards right, I might.”

***

Steve pretty much falls asleep as soon as he comes, and Bucky stares at him, annoyed, then shakes his head and finishes himself off. He ends up spending a good chunk of the night laying beside, then half-under Steve (he’s like a fucking octopus) thinking about what a fucking idiot he is for not being better prepared for someone to come at him. The night could have ended much, much worse and while on the one hand he’s aware that maybe a third of this is paranoia, he’s spent too much time recently reviewing the latest files Charles and Tony have sent him not to realize that the paranoia is definitely fucking justified.

Eventually, a couple hours before dawn, he puts in the work to get his brain to shut off and sleep. It feels like only an hour or so later when Steve’s attempts to stealthily slide out of bed wake him up. 

“I’m awake,” he mutters. 

Steve sighs. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

Bucky rolls over, closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Damn it. He turns back to look at Steve. “Not gonna happen any time soon. You hungry?” Steve blushes when his stomach rumbles, making Bucky burst out laughing. “All right, let me get breakfast going.”

They eat, Steve with a solid, single-minded intensity, just shoveling in food. After he finishes off the half-dozen eggs Bucky made, Steve gets up and digs in the fridge, then scrambles the other dozen Bucky had in reserve. Well, they’re definitely going to need to go to the grocery. 

Bucky watches him carefully, and when Steve finally slows down, asks, “They put you on bread and water?”

Steve looks up, expression turning annoyed. “Fucking--” He stops himself abruptly. “You mind if I wait to fill you in? Don’t wanna ruin my appetite.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, waves lazily at Steve’s plate with his half-full mug of coffee. “Nope. Eat up.”

***

They pile the dishes in the sink and then Bucky aims Steve back toward the bedroom. He’s got that look like he’s about to drop into a food coma, and Bucky’s  _ really _ wondering what happened with SHIELD now. Werewolves typically get this way when they’re recovering from a serious injury. He doesn’t recall seeing anything last night, but-- Steve said something about three back-to-back missions. As far as he knows, that’s not typical. So after they shuck their clothes and get back into bed, he pulls Steve against him and murmurs, “Want to tell me what happened?”

Steve sighs, hot breath against his collarbone making Bucky shiver. Then he props himself up on his left side, rests his cheek in his hand and looks down at Bucky. “The missions I ran? All three, my handlers were the bastards you identified as Hydra.” 

Bucky tenses, pushes himself up so he’s resting against the headboard, head even with Steve’s. Steve rests his right hand lightly against Bucky’s chest, rubs it in a circle. Against his will, Bucky starts to slowly relax again. “I’m listening.”

“Jasper Sitwell and Marie duVoss acted as handlers. First mission was Sitwell’s, not too bad. Normal as STRIKE goes, I guess. I got a little banged up--” Bucky wonders what Steve considers ‘a little’ these days, but doesn’t interrupt. “--but that was fine. Got in, debriefed, and then I was turning around again.” 

Steve inches a little closer, right hand slipping to Bucky’s left side, resting over the faint ridges of his silver-scars. Bucky shivers, reaches over and catches Steve’s arm to tug it away. Steve backs off, rests his hand on Bucky’s chest again instead. “DuVoss said it would be a milk run, but it went to hell pretty quick. Seven days in the field instead of three, two of the team sent with me injured, one dead. It would have been more but I--”

He cuts himself off and Bucky finishes, “You were stupidly heroic and got yourself hurt getting everyone else home safe.”

When Steve doesn’t say anything, Bucky knows he’s right.

After a beat, Steve resumes. “I got in, debriefed, and stayed behind to give duVoss a piece of my mind. And that’s where Sitwell found me with an ‘emergency’ and I went right out again.”

“Fuck.” Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Yeah. It was-- well, it wasn’t quite  _ worse _ than duVoss’s mission, but I was with STRIKE Alpha, they were being insubordinate, I was tired and hurt--” Steve stops, looking into the middle distance and Bucky wonders what he’s seeing. “It was bad, Buck,” Steve says, focusing on him again. “Bad intel, bad tactics, pissed off team. And it was for nothing and I got hurt. Bad enough that when we landed in New York, I told Sitwell I’d debrief there and then I was taking three days of R&R.”

Bucky has a sense of what’s coming. “He tried to argue?”

“He tried to argue.” Steve scowls. “Told me there was another mission. Told me I was a God damned super-soldier, not a fucking pansy, and  _ ordered _ me back out.”

“Damn.”

Steve shakes his head. “Yeah. If my hand hadn’t been broken, I’d have punched him in the God damn face.” Bucky growls in agreement. “Agent HIll was walking by and heard me yelling, I guess. She kept me from kicking his ass, was still giving him a dressing down when I got out of there.” Steve flexes his fingers against his chest. “I went to see Tony, he lent me a motorcycle. I didn’t even wait to get cleaned up, just came straight here.”

Bucky takes Steve’s hand. “This the one you broke?” Steve nods, and Bucky runs his fingers over it, checking to see nothing healed wrong. He looks up, and Steve’s watching him, lopsided smile on his face. “I’m gonna fall asleep again, Buck. Stay?”

Bucky nods. “Let me go call Gustavo and Ray, tell them I won’t in today.” He starts to get up, watches the smile disappear. “I’ll come back.”

Steve smiles again, and it makes something bloom in his chest.. “Good.”

***

Bucky dozes for a while, Steve doing his best octopus impression again. But by the time Steve wakes up, Bucky’s had a chance to think about what Steve told him and he’s formed a couple of theories. He’s not real thrilled with any of them. He tugs on his track pants, drags a t-shirt over his head, then leans against the dresser, watching Steve get dressed. “You said Hill was dressing down Sitwell when you got out of there, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve pulls a sweater over his t-shirt and his hair ends up in every direction, crackling with static. “She was tearing him a new asshole and I beat feet.”

Bucky nods, hiding a smile at Steve’s bedhead. “You hear anything about what she said?”

“Hm.” Steve sits on the bed and starts pulling on a pair of socks. “Sending me out the third time had been against policy, he was taking things entirely too far. She went on about official SHIELD policy.”

“Which is?” Bucky turns to the drawers behind him and digs out a sweatshirt.

“Anyone level seven or higher gets 36 hours minimum downtime following debrief, with a standard of at least 72 hours.” Steve sounds like he’s quoting a manual. “If there’s a level nine emergency, that goes down to 12 hours and it’s only revoked in the case of multiple, simultaneous level nine emergencies.” 

Bucky tugs the sweatshirt over his head. The left sleeve flops down and he rummages around on his dresser for a safety pin. “Level nine?” He finds a pin, then starts folding up his left sleeve.

“Aliens attacking New York was level nine. If there had been multiple, simultaneous attacks…”

Bucky lets go of his sleeve and crosses himself. “Let’s hope that never happens.” He goes back to folding it again, swearing when the pin slips a couple of times. 

He looks up when Steve asks hesitantly, “Can I help you?” 

Steve’s brow is furrowed and he’s biting his lip, but his eyes look-- hopeful. “All right,” Bucky says slowly. “Sure.” Steve steps toward him and Bucky silently holds out the safety pin. Steve starts folding the empty sleeve, frowning in concentration, before taking the pin. Bucky watches him as he pins the sleeve, then studies it to make sure it’s straight. 

“All right, so level 9.” Bucky takes a breath, then keeps going. “But you weren’t having multiple level nine emergencies, because I’d have heard about that, right? Pretty hard to keep that a secret.”

“Yeah.” Steve kind of gives Bucky’s arm an awkward little pat then steps back, meeting his eyes. “You’d definitely have heard. These were--” He stops to think about it, then ticks them off on his fingers. “First one was level five, second one was supposed to be level four, but probably ended up a six/seven. The last one was  _ definitely _ a seven.”

“All right.” Bucky waves at Steve to head to the living room, then follows him. “You were hurt. And spent how many days straight on missions?”

Steve pauses, calculating, then says, “Sixteen, including debriefs.”

“Is that normal?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. I mean, if you’re undercover or something, sure. You can be out a lot longer. But I’m not a spy, the teams I go in with aren’t either. Usually we’re in and out pretty quick.”

Bucky considers this as Steve takes a seat on the couch. “You remember anything else that was off? Weird?”

Steve leans back, hands behind his head as he gazes up at the ceiling. “Second team was newer. Good people, I’ve trained with them a few times, but a newer group in the field. They weren’t real fond of duVoss, either. The lead agent was pretty experienced and she thought something was off. I believed her, but it could just have been crap intel. She thought we were walking into a trap, then the place blew.”

“Shit.” Bucky runs his hand through his hair. “She get out?”

“Yeah.” Steve grimaces. “Her XO didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky takes a seat at the other end of the couch. “So by the time they tried to send you out again, you’d been on three missions, you’d been hurt, what, couple of times?” Steve nods. “Short on sleep, short on food, right? What do you think would’ve happened if you’d gone out again?”

Steve levels a look at him. “You seem like you’ve got an answer. You gonna tell me?”

Bucky leans forward. “Couple of options.” He holds up a finger. “One, they send you with another STRIKE team, STRIKE fucks up, you get captured. Hydra has its chance at turning Captain America into their puppet.”

“Two.” Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes on him as he holds up a second finger. “Things go to hell, you’re tired and hurt, not making the best decisions, and there’s an accident.”

“Accident.” Steve sounds skeptical.

He shrugs. “Real accident or ‘accident.’ It’s all the same result, Captain America dies in the service of his country. It’s a tragedy.”

Steve looks unsettled, caught between disbelief and the mounting understanding that Bucky could be right. “You really think those are the options?”

“Well,” he drawls, “they could just be testing you to see the limits of the super-soldier serum. Recreating conditions like in the war.” He leans forward, taps his palm against his knee. “But why? What does that tell them? Nothing they don’t already know.” Bucky stares at the fabric of the couch, then looks back up. “If you didn’t know about this, about me. About Hydra. How would you be doing right now?  _ What _ would you be doing right now? Would running missions that might kill you seem like a pretty good option?”

“No” Steve says it so fast it’s reflex, Bucky can tell. “Maybe?” He hunches his shoulders and looks down at his hands. “I don’t know.”

Bucky reaches over, lets his hand rest on Steve’s knee. “Steve.” When Steve looks up at him, face grim, Bucky squeezes. “You’re here.  _ I’m _ here. And they--  _ Hydra _ \-- doesn’t get to have you.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve’s smile is wobbly, and Bucky gives his knee another squeeze before letting go. “So what do we do now? You have any new intel?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I got some more intel from Charles and Tony. Let’s take a look. Maybe we can take the fight to them.”

***

They spend the next two days reviewing the intel Bucky’s got on the larger Hydra bases-- the ones that he and Charles had rejected as too dangerous for two people, or even three. If he, Steve, Charles, maybe Tony in the Iron Man suit, go in now, then that might change things-- hurt Hydra enough to make them back off. It could give Bucky, Tony, and Charles the chance to expose them-- get Tony out in front to do the PR, start putting pins in all of Hydra’s attempts to stoke tensions between humans and the supernatural.

By mid-day on Sunday they’ve got a good plan together, something that Bucky thinks will hold up to Charles’ scrutiny. Bucky sits at his desk to pull up the Skype window, Steve crowding in next to him in one of the dining room chairs, talking about calling Tony next, then some guy named Banner. When Charles answers, Bucky steamrolls over him, excited to tell him what they came up with, what they’ve got planned, Steve leaning into him to add information. Charles barely changes expression, doesn’t ask questions, quiet and calm, until finally Bucky demands, “Well, what do you think?”

Charles opens his mouth to reply and in the background there’s a crash of a door against a wall, the sound of two sets of feet running. Anna’s voice calls “No, honey, you can’t go in there right now!” 

“Charles! Charles!” The door bursts open behind him.

“Teresa!” Bucky stares at the little figure. “What have we told you about doors? I’m talking--”

She catches sight of the screen then, staring directly at him, and Bucky’s freezing, freezing, frozen--

“Soldier!” High, childish voice and then a small body rushing toward the screen, neatly avoiding Charles. The screen shakes, dips like she grabbed the laptop Charles is using. Bucky leans back fast, stomach twisting. Distantly he notices that she’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s too big for her, sleeves pooling at her wrists. Her hair’s grown out from the buzzcut when they found her, but the short curls do nothing to draw attention away from her eyes, the same color he sees in the mirror each morning.

Beside him, Steve gasps.

“Teresa!” He can hear Charles, but not see him, Teresa clearly taking some kind of evasive action to try to keep the laptop in her hands. The screen keeps shaking, and Bucky feels his gorge rise. 

“Soldier, where are you? Are you on a mission?” Her little face grows sharp, and through the bouncing screen Bucky can see that she is scenting. “They haven’t let us go on a mission yet, the moon doesn’t  _ count,” _ her voice slides into a cold whine. Bucky wants to close his eyes, close the laptop, hurl himself away from the desk, from  _ Steve-- _

His skin prickles in a cold sweat. There’s movement behind Teresa and he can see Charles, moving wolf-fast, grab Teresa’s arms, hold her in place. She snarls at him over her shoulder, teeth snapping. 

“ _ Teresa!” _ Bucky watches Charles stare at her until she looks down. Submits. It’s so clearly unwilling, and Bucky’s not sure what that says about-- about anything that’s happening out there. 

The computer moves again, whirlwind view of the walls and ceiling of Charles’ office, and then Teresa  _ and _ Charles are both looking at him through the camera. Teresa has her arms folded, mutinous, while Charles’ usual calm has given way to badly hidden frustration.

Then Charles gets a good look at him-- Bucky must look as awful as he feels-- and quickly says, “Yes, James is on a mission.”

Half-hysterically, Bucky thinks  _ that’s true enough _ .

“I can help, Soldier.” She leans forward toward the screen, teeth bared, eyes bright. “Sergeant said I was the best, even though I’m youngest.” Bucky bites back the urge to vomit, while next to him, Steve inhales sharply. 

“Um.” He forces himself to take a breath, another, aware of the sounds of cloth-on-cloth, cloth-over-skin. Steve--  _ Christ, Steve is seeing _ \-- He flinches at the touch of a warm hand at his back, winces when Steve leans into him. He loses control of his breathing for a moment, trapped between the agony of Steve seeing Teresa,  _ knowing _ \-- and his instinct to get further from the computer. 

“Soldier!” Teresa’s voice goes higher, frantic. Bucky opens his eyes quickly, and sees Charles holding her arms again, looks like he’s holding her back. “Soldier, turn around! It’s one of  _ them!” _ She lunges forward like she can go through the computer to get to Steve and Bucky flings out an arm instinctively.

“No, it’s okay, kid--”

“Teresa! Calm yourself!” Charles grabs her by the waist and pulls her back while she struggles against him. “James is fine.” He glances at the screen. “James.”

Bucky takes a breath, forces himself to move closer to the screen. Steve’s hand is still on his back, burning like a brand. He reaches for the tone he uses with Maelle and Nita. “Kiddo. Teresa. I’m fine, kiddo. It’s okay, I’m fine.”

Slowly, she stops fighting, face flushed, chest rising and falling too fast. “Soldier, no.” Her little face twists unhappily.

“Teresa.” He knows his voice is too harsh, tries to modulate it into something smoother, soothing. “I’m fine.” God, he’s anything but. “This is my friend, Steve,” he makes himself say, tugging Steve forward so his face is clearly in the frame. Ignores the sidewise look Steve gives him. 

She shakes her head. “No. He’s the enemy.” She lunges again, and Steve and Bucky both jump, Charles barely holding her. She’s close enough to the laptop’s camera now that her face fills the whole screen. “You’re supposed to be the fist of Hydra. Not a turncoat! They said--”

“They said what, kiddo?” He manages to keep his voice calm. 

“He’s  _ the target,”  _ she whispers. “He’ll be--” She stops abruptly, teeth snapping.

Bucky shakes his head. “That wasn’t the truth, kiddo. Steve and I are working together.” He pauses, then adds, “We have a mission together.”

She eyes Steve suspiciously. “Really?”

“Yeah, kiddo. He’s my-- friend.” Bucky trips over the word, hopes she doesn’t catch it. Steve definitely does, stiffening further beside him. 

“Friend?” She sounds confused. “Like, like--”

“Like Asil is your friend.” Charles voice is quiet. “Someone who cares about you and watches over you.”

“Oh. Like Sergeant.” He watches as she calms down, watches her little chest rise and fall. Clamps down on his own nausea. Then she leans forward again, staring Bucky directly in the eye, like she’s trying to prove her dominance. “I don’t trust him, Soldier.” 

Bucky leans forward, mirroring her, and not dropping his gaze. “I’ll be careful, kiddo.”

Charles lifts Teresa up then, turns her so she’s looking at him, not the computer. “Teresa, you go see Anna now. When I’m finished talking to James, you and I are going to have a discussion about what closed doors mean.”

“Okay,” she says, dragging out the word. Charles puts his hand on her little shoulder and walks her to the door. Bucky can see Anna in the doorway, looking tense. Then Charles closes the door on the two of them and walks back to his desk.

“James.” His voice is crisp and Bucky’s gaze snaps to his face. “I think that any move on Hydra is premature.” He raises a hand as if to ward off whatever Bucky will say next. Bucky’s not sure he can find his voice, and Steve is silent next to him. “I appreciate your concerns about the danger Captain Rogers is in, and I understand the frustration you are feeling. However, we are at a delicate stage of the negotiations and my father is not going to sign off on an unprovoked attack. You will stand down, James. Do you understand?”

Bucky drops his eyes. “Yes.”

“Good.” Then Charles softens a bit. “I’m sorry that Teresa surprised you. I should have mentioned she was coming over.”

Bucky nods.

“I will call you later, James. Goodbye, Captain, have a good afternoon.” 

Charles disconnects the call and Bucky stares sightlessly at the computer in front of him, until Steve gently touches his back again. “Buck?”

Bucky stands up abruptly and heads for the patio door. He needs to be outside right now, needs to feel fresh air on his face. Needs not to look at Steve’s face, to see what’s there right now. Christ, how can Steve even stand look at him--

The wolf is growling viciously in the back of his head and he spends a few minutes walking around the yard, trying to rein himself in. It’s cold and he lets himself feel it-- the clammy feel of the humid air, the bite of the wind. Deep breaths help with the nausea and he turns his face to the sky, eyes closed, hand fisted at his side.

Eventually, he hears Steve’s footsteps but he keeps his eyes closed, concentrates on breathing. He can tell when Steve’s just a few steps away-- could probably reach out and brush his fingertips against him. “She called you ‘soldier’ like it was your name.”

Bucky opens his eyes. The sky is very blue with a few high wispy clouds. Steve’s silhouetted against it, shoulders squared. Like this, he can’t really see Steve’s expression, and he lets himself have that for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says. “She did.”

“Charles calls you James. Charles, Bran, Isaac, Alison.” Steve ticks them off on his fingers. “All the wolves call you James.”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “Yeah.”

Steve nods. When he speaks again, his voice is oddly gentle. “She looks just like Becca at that age. The spitting image. A Barnes through and through.”

It feels like a blow. The nausea slams back full force, along with the knowledge that he doesn’t know how many others are running around with his eyes, with, apparently, his sister’s face. There’s an echo in his mind, harsh guttural voices speaking Russian, German. Harsh hands on his body--

Bucky steps to the left, enough so that the sun falls bright on Steve’s face, illuminating his expression. Bucky waits for the disgust, the horror. Wonders how Steve can manage to conceal it.

“You found her?” Steve asks finally, voice still gentle. “At one of the Hydra bases?”

“Y-- Yes.” Bucky can feel his throat closing around the word.

Steve watches him. “You gonna tell me about it?”

Bucky’s shaking his head before he’s even aware of what he’s doing. He can feel his face going hot, humiliation burning through him. “I don’t--” He turns away.  _ Fuck.  _ The wolf is a whine in his head, and it’s tempting, so God damned tempting, to shift. Instead, he tries to get himself back under control. 

He remembers suddenly Teresa’s hissed words,  _ he’s the target. _ Hydra had been training those kids since birth, had given them a mission with regards to Steve. He seizes on that, tries to follow it through to its conclusion. “Hydra told her that you were a target, a mission.” 

Steve looks confused by the shift in conversation. “That’s what she said. She’s a kid, though.”

Bucky shrugs. “They were being trained like operatives, and they fought in a pack. They probably couldn’t have taken you down now, but in a few years--”

Steve stares at him. “Bucky, that’s crazy.  _ She’s a kid.” _ Then he cocks his head. “They? More than one?”

Bucky drags his fingers through his hair. “Three.” In his head, he adds,  _ so far. _

“And you don’t--” Steve sighs. “Look, Buck, I think we should talk about this.”

“No.” He grips his left arm with his right. Bucky stares at the place where Steve’s shoulder meets his neck, at the greening bruise there. He left it a few hours earlier-- there are more beneath Steve’s sweater, under his jeans. He leaves bruises on Steve, and he tracks threats and he makes sure Steve doesn’t know just how fucked up he is. 

He shakes his head. “We need to figure out what Hydra is planning.”

“Buck--”

He looks up into Steve’s eyes. “I’m going to call Tony.”

He turns away, back to the house. Pretends he doesn’t hear Steve say, “We  _ are _ going to talk about this Barnes.” Not if he has anything to say about it.


End file.
